


vitam et mortem

by Ara (WalkUnseen)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (thus the Slow Burn Tag), A Hades and Persephone Allegory with a Twist, Caleb Typical Levels of Trauma And All that Comes With It, Canon Typical Descriptions of Violence; i.e. Matt’s Nice level of Gore, Dysphoria, Finding Identity - Freeform, Finding Something to Live For, Gen, Gods and Goddesses AU, Healing, Here There Be Fantastical Powers, Lotta Symbolism, M/M, Not the Creepy Kind of Version of that Story, Other, Protective Goblin Mom Nott, Some Hurt/Comfort Because I Can't Help Myself, Some Romance Tropes Mixed in, The Slowest Burn of Your Existence, There is Too Much Plot Now, Trent Ikithon Typical Levels of Being a Douche Nozzle, Unrequited to requited love, Various Campaign One Cameos, Way Too Much World Building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-08-02 03:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 75,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16297655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkUnseen/pseuds/Ara
Summary: Molly never really felt like he was meant to rule the land of the Dead.He is drawn to the vibrancy of life, to the mortal realms above his own, where it's colorful and rife with hope.He goes up top, among those lively mortals, and to the Spring Harvest Festival in search of something bright admist the gloom that awaits him in a realm that is not his own.He finds something unexpected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Feel free to message me on either if you want/need to)
> 
> Tumblr: trashofboat
> 
> Discord: Ara#6309

He remembers the moon. 

That was the most vivid part of it. It had loomed above him, smiling down in a tight crescent that ballooned into a pockmarked eye in a matter of moments. 

And he remembers a storm too. Deep and rumbling, the clouds tumbling into view on the backs of forked lightning and the roar of thunder. 

He remembers a hand reaching from that fury and grasping his own, as firm and unyielding as the war above his head that blotted out that glaring white eye. 

Then it was dark. 

It was dark for some time. 

And there were others. They told him his name. They told him his siblings were dead. They told him that he had been lucky to survive. They told him that the Second Calamity had torn apart the mortal realms again.

They called him Morrígan, but that did not fit. 

He did not know who that was. 

So, he chose a new name. He chose a name of those great wandering birds, the ones that scour the oceans and do not rest for the miles they eat up beneath their wings. 

Tireless and ever enduring. 

_Mollymauk._

 

 

\--//--/-//-

 

 

 

He's perched atop the ruins of a great cathedral that once stood to a name that is no longer his, lost to ruins after the second calamity claimed it and was never rebuilt when the mortals learned to fear a person he can't remember being. 

There's humanoids milling about below, but they do not notice him. 

Not like this. 

Not when he is draped in midnight and feathers, blending in seamlessly with the rest of the vermin that caw and trill from these ruinous heights. 

He watches them, beady eyes scanning their menial tasks, enraptured by the way they move with such purpose and blind devotion for the day ahead of them. Even then, he doesn't like his realm as much as this mortal one. 

There is sunlight and life; purpose up here. It is not dark and dreary with artificial fire, with endless swamps and wastes crawling with beasts, and the ever distant cries of torment and never-ending battles. 

Yasha had told him he should avoid the mortal realm. 

That others would not welcome his presence here. That they would think he was encroaching upon their territories. She had rumbled the warning with the growl of thunder and lightning crackling in her eyes. 

But he doesn't care. 

Let them come. He's already died once and come back. He will do it again. 

Fjord had warned him that there were deities here that would smite him if they knew he was overstepping his bounds. But still he ignored the man, didn't care for his words of warning steeped in the echoes of the tide. 

Jester encouraged him. She had grabbed his hands and spoke of sunlight, warmth, and life; beamed at him with a radiance he had never seen before. She spoke of flowers and beauty, Molly had never truly broken down and cried before in his brief existence, but he can remember the imagined things tangling up in his chest and threatening to spill over. 

He was never meant to rule the Underworld. That was someone else's job. Someone who died at the hands of a devil. He is meant for more than that. 

He craves light and joy. He wants _life._

And, against the will of two of his friends, he has been sneaking to the mortal realm, ever since Jester planted the idea in his head and it blossomed into an insatiable desire. 

Disguised in a skin that fits so familiarly it is unnatural to him.To these mortals he is just any other raven they see from day to day, but one day he or another will be there to see them all to their rest and ruin.

There's the calling of a trumpet in the distance. He snaps his wings out, taking off over the prismatic spread of banners and streamers lining the street.

It is the Spring Harvest Festival, and he's come to join in the delight and festivities of the day. 

The realm below has been particularly oppressive this year. He feels like he's been trapped in his duties, forced to carry out tasks he never wanted, but has to do lest the mortal and immortal realms crumble. 

He needs a spot of hope and what better place to find it than at a celebration of life and giving. 

 

 

 

\----------------------------------////-------------------------------

 

 

 

Nott had warned him to be careful.

She had said that there were things beyond the forest that might take him away. He had never understood her fear. 

He had liked walking among the mortals. The woods could become lonely and empty and he enjoyed seeing the harvest they collected from his season's work. 

One man had changed all that. 

He had found an ancient ritual.

A spell, meant to be lost to time and the First Calamity that the mortal had dug up from the depths of that tragic history and used against him. 

And Caleb had been naive. Young even. Born in the wake of the First Calamity and new to the dawning age.

Enraptured in the whims of a mortal that had pleaded for his help, he hadn't known that mortals were desperate enough to hurt the thing that gave them life. He hadn't known that they would do anything for power. Even if it meant tearing a god from it's pedestal. 

It's been many seasons since then and he is still wary to travel beyond the stretches of the woods that hide them. 

But he misses the mortals. 

He misses their joy and their life. 

He knows that man is dead. He remembers him turning to ash and dust once Nott and the others had found him. 

Nott had taught him how to wield fire after that too.

She herself had the warmth and fury of summer laced in her, but he never thought spring could be something as aggressive. She said he needed to know how to defend himself. She said spring was not always gentle or understanding. She said sometimes it was harsh and biting… and cruel. 

The fire stayed beneath his skin even if he didn't think it belonged there and it was comforting because it felt like her. 

He steps out of the confines of the woods he has hidden behind for moons. 

Today is the Spring Harvest Festival. 

He hasn't told Nott where he is going, afraid she would bar him from leaving the forest this time too. 

But he needs to see it. He needs to see at least some of that life again. 

 

 

 

\---------------------------//-------------------

 

 

Molly descends into an alleyway, out of the prying eyes of the mortals, shifting and morphing back into something more comfortable, more _him_. 

He stretches his hands over his head, rolling his shoulders, and fiddling with the scimitar at his hip. 

Much better. 

He honestly hates flying around as a damn raven, but it's the quickest and most ambiguous form of travel he has at his disposal. He can't exactly pop into the center of the festival in a puff of curling shadows after all. That would be highly suspicious, and he isn't trying to have some asshole god or goddess leaping at his throat about it. 

With all his caution however, he still doesn't really care to change his appearance to much. This town is a colorful one; rife with orcs, the occasional tiefling, gensais, and other, perhaps considered more 'beastial' humanoids who all vary in color so greatly he remembers thinking this particular town looked like a rolling meadow from up above. 

It's also why it's amongst his favorite of all of them. 

He weaves into the throngs of moving people and no one offers his lavender skin or extravagantly colored clothing a second glance.

Unfortunately, the same can't be said of others. Some of the other gods he's had the utmost displeasure of meeting when they come to discuss business with him in the Underworld spend a long, awkward moment staring. Like they don't expect him to be draped in rainbows and ornate fabrics. 

He has a feeling whoever he was before was quite the drim and drab individual, if their frankly depressing interior decorating and dismal wardrobe is anything to go by. 

He knows he doesn't exactly look like the picturesque god of death, but honestly a lot of the time he doesn't feel like the god of death either.

No matter how much the others tell him that's who he's supposed to be. 

 

 

 

\---------------------//-------------------

 

 

Caleb moves about the town of misfits and outcasts, enraptured by their colors and shapes, the vibrant variations of them. They remind him of his meadows, of his flowers, and he can't help but admire every one of them even if a lingering eye occasionally sends him hunching and retreating away from their gaze. 

He doesn't know if it's something about him that interests the mortals so much, but sometimes they are drawn to him even if he doesn't want them to be. 

Nott said they can feel life from him and like moths they gravitate towards him-- Even if he doesn't want them to. 

She told him to be careful because of it. 

He had already ignored her once and been burnt for it, but it emboldens him knowing that he has the potential to burn them back if anyone ever tries again. 

A small elvish girl leans up on her toes towards him, smile bright and reflective, aimed at him and he smiles back, small and reserved. She beams back even brighter, fingers clasped around a lilac flower’s stem she extends to him.

It's slightly wilted and abused at the edges, like whoever picked it wasn't exactly careful and he frowns, taking it with careful fingers where it straightens and rights, the pale violet color deepening. The small child gapes, transfixed on the flower in his palm and he hands it back to her. 

He's not sure if she was handing it to him to keep or not, but he returns it anyways. He's not ignorant to the spark of starry delight in her eyes. 

“Thank you, mister!” She darts back to the makeshift shopping stall she must have come from. Her family is there, more petals and blooms spilling over a wooden table and against the cobbled stone. 

He knows magic is not foreign to these people, that they won't question a simple parlor trick like that too much. 

There's the cry of trumpets at the center of the city. Streamers weave their ways through the street and past him and he marvels at the way they tangle in the air and reflect in the sun. 

 

 

 

\----------------------//---------------------

 

 

 

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” 

Molly startles at the voice, distracted from where he had been inspecting silk flowers one of the stalls was selling. He turns on his heel, already grinning, but it falters when he sees who it is. 

“Oh… you..." he curls his lip. 

“Yeah, _me_.” She's dressed in simple blues and baggy pants, but he would recognize the goddess of victory and justice anywhere. 

Beauregard grabs his shoulder and he doesn't resist, because he knows she can kick his ass ten different ways in ten seconds. She is the patron of fighters after all. 

She drags him into a shadowed alleyway and pins his shoulders against the stone, all but growling in his face. “Let me ask this again: what the fuck are you doing up here, Molly?” 

Her eyes are burning and he knows she's not just pissed at him, he knows she's scared for him as well. 

It's a look he knows well by now since they all have leveled him with it at some point during the adjustment period into this new mindset.

“Are you trying to piss someone off?” 

He shoves her hands off, dusting off his shoulders and smoothing down the jacket. “I couldn't stay down there for another second, Beau.”

He is dying down there, and maybe it is ironic he was the patron of death after all. 

She scoffs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know he's still out there somewhere right?” 

And that's another thing. 

The others had warned him not just to avoid other gods, but to avoid coming up top. Because the person who did this to him, the person who killed the sisters he doesn't even remember having, the person who took away his memories--

That person is still alive and somewhere in one of the realms. 

“I'm not an idiot. It's just some podunk little town, do you really think he would look for me here?” 

She levels him with a look that speaks volumes for how much of an idiot she thinks he is and he just grins through it. 

“I don't know, maybe. But we can't take any risks right now, and you need to stop doing stupid shit like this.” She jabs him in the chest and he curls his lip up at her. “At least ask Yasha first. She might even have come with you. I know she'd be glad to take a break and accompany your stupid ass to a flower festival.” 

He grins, eagerly latching onto the opportunity she's laid before him. “Oh, but, she's always busy with you whenever I ask.” 

Beau's face dusts pink at that and Molly laughs. The goddess takes a swing at him, but it's half hearted and he ducks around it easily. She bristles and rubs at her forehead with the heel of her palm, sighing. He can tell she's frustrated but he can't help what his mind tells him to do. 

He's practically all impulse, and she should know that by now. 

She shakes her head, kneading at her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Look, just, be careful okay. I'll let it slide today, but if I see you up top here again without someone escorting you I'll tell her you've been coming up here alone all this time.” 

He really doesn't want another lecture thrown at him. He's tired of those. He's only been around for a moment compared to rest of them, but he feels like he's gotten enough lectures for an immortal life time about being where he shouldn't or doing things he shouldn't do. 

Speaking of being in places one shouldn't be...

Molly cocks his head, tail lashing, “What exactly are you doing at a Harvest Festival of all things anyways?” 

The monk shifts something behind her back he hadn't even noticed before, eyes darting to the left. “Nothing.” 

He smirks knowingly. For all of her bite and bark the goddess was truly a big softy at heart. 

“If you're buying flowers for Yasha's collection get the blue ones.” He points to her ensemble, “The ones that match your whole color scheme. She likes those best.”

She takes another light-hearted swipe at him and he dodges, laughing and delighted. 

He loves poking at Beau, she is always so willing to keep him on his toes-- and she doesn't look at him sadly, like he's supposed to be someone else. Not how Yasha sometimes looks at him or even Fjord. Jester does her best to hide it, but sometimes that sunlight wavers when she first sees him and it takes her a moment to remember he isn't the person she's looking at. 

Beau, of them all, truly makes him feel like this body, this vessel, might be his own, that he's not just some imposter among them. 

She doesn't bring up his forgotten past, she's never asked him if he remembered anything, and she isn't afraid to call him on his shit. 

Sometimes the others tiptoe around him, careful, like they are afraid he might snap. 

And she's never accidentally called him Morrígan either.

 

“Go enjoy your stupid flower shit. I need to deliver these, but I'll keep an eye on you," She holds up a finger." Just this one _last_ time I'll let you be up here alone." 

She taps the necklace at the pit of her neck, one that he knows mirrors the one he wears. “And don't think I don't know your stupid ass has been up here alone before.” 

It's simple, a mirrored coin-size pane, ringed by gold filigree and hung by a gold chain. They are the only two in existence that he's aware of, and he's not sure where Beau found them, when he even truly got his, but she uses it to keep track of his location and make sure he isn't dying or dead.

He can't exactly take it off either. It's charmed to be unremovable which is frankly just very inconvenient at times. And highly amusing as well. 

He can also keep an eye on her if he concentrates on it, which is how he would know when she is otherwise… _preoccupied_ with things and he could sneak up and out of the land of the dead to the living.

He curses silently at himself, because he should have made certain she was busy before he snuck up this time, but it was too late for all of that now.

"Don't be an idiot while I'm gone, Molly." She flicks him on the forehead, clicks her heels, and vanishes in a puff of mist and he's left alone in the alleyway. 

He's free to wander now _and_ with her permission too.

He's most definitelty a little perturbed she felt the need to come after him like she is his glorified babysitter in the first place though.

 

He takes off back down the street, streamers over head now and the crowds of people thick and colorful. The sound of them all laughing and cheering and chorusing in the sunlight is so much better than the agonized wails of the damned. 

 

 

\-------------------------------//-------------------------------------------

 

 

Caleb is enthralled in the excitement of the people around him, he's perched up on a cart, sitting on the edge of it, tired of being jostled by the moving crowd, but still wanting to observe the festivities. 

There's a crown of soft blues in his hair, the petals shining and bright and almost alive again once the woman who was passing them around had settled it onto his head. 

The owner of the cart doesn't mind him being there it seems and he stays there. Looking up at the petals being strewn into the air and the strange paper crafts they hold on the end of sticks and make dance above the crowds.

It's all so lively and he can't believe he ever let himself miss this.

There's still that fear in the back of his head, the fear of being trapped again, but he doesn't listen to it. Not right now. Not when he's surrounded by smiles and laughter and faces so lively he's almost proud of the season he's been named patron of.

Almost. 

He's never really felt like spring fit him. 

He can almost remember being a mortal. Far before this age, when turmoil was rife and gods were rising to power and claiming the lands. He has vague snippets, impression of being scared, hopeless even, admist the conflict. 

And he certainly never thought life and hope would be his gift to give to the world.

He can hardly remember how it was granted to him in the first place. All the times before are distant and fuzzy... 

The most he remembers is his true name, the one from before, the one Nott calls him by, or Caduceus refers to him by, when he helps the man trade over the seasons. 

The names that he calls them all by as well.

They all have titles and the formal things the mortals call them, but in the confines of their own realms, in the safety of the company of other deities they like to use their names. It feels familiar, it feels _right._

There's a sudden sensation, like spiders creeping up his spine and Caleb glances over his shoulder, nerves prickling along the back of his neck as he scans the crowd. Heart starting to skitter, and regret starting to settle in for wandering up here at all when he knows there's more to worry about than just the mortals and the memories--

Maybe he shouldn't have come, maybe Nott was right all along, maybe he---

He meets red eyes.

Blank and empty, no pupil visible, but they are very much alive-- and staring right at him. 

They are still across the cobbled road, on the opposite side of a throng of parading mortals. 

He recognizes them. 

He remembers those same eyes tracking him before, before the Second Calamity, before the patron of ruin and time had rebelled and they had dissapeared under ash.

He remembers them following him, Nott warding them off from the edges of their forest when they would come, begging-- a desperate suitor for the patron of spring that was never wanted.

_Morrígan_.

He hops off the edge of the cart and _runs_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a fair number of cameos from campaign one as we go on.
> 
> But if you haven't watched/listened to it yet don't worry because it won't be strictly necessary to know much about Campaign one with the way I'm writing this.

Molly wanders and weaves through the twisting rivers of mortals. He collects the lazily drifting petals as he goes, running them between his fingertips where they slowly crumble to ash. 

Their life is brief and short, fleeting even. Their beauty captured in an instant and whisked away just as quick and he admires them for it. He wishes there was a way to capture them and put them below, where he can watch them thrive and die and thrive again for all the seasons.

He knows they would stay dead though. 

He knows that the only things that can survive down there are gnarled and blackened thorns, with roots that twist and sprout in bruised purples and bloody reds. No blues or greens, no signs of true life among them. 

Not like up here. 

And there is so much of that blue up here that he can't help but be drawn in by it. 

The sky overhead is a bright, glaring canvas of it and the distant sea a glittering, wavering sheet of it. Even the flower petals that dance in the space about him, clutched in the fists of children and framed against hair that shines like amber and fire---

He stutters to a halt. 

It's across the way from him, cut off by the parade march through the city, but he can see it. 

It's bright and warm and alluring. It's nothing quite like what he's ever seen down below. 

There's a man; dressed in simple clothes; an ivory, off-white shirt and brown slacks, the visible portions of his right arm concealed in wraps of crimson, and as barefoot as the day he was probably brought into existence. 

But he is no mortal of this realm.

There's too much about him for him to be considered a mere human. 

He's far too _bright._

The man's gaze turns to him and there's a shine in them that's beyond the soft glimmer of sunlight and Molly can't help but stare. He's seen them somewhere before.

Seen all of it before somewhere... but he can't place it. 

The man's face goes pale just as suddenly, his eyes widening and Molly's never had someone look so frightened of him before, and it stings more than he thought it would. He may be the god of death, but that doesn't mean he wants to be feared. 

“Wai-” 

The man's already bolting into the crowd, clipping away like a frightened colt and Molly can't help but feel guilty. He had looked like he was enjoying the festivities and Molly had taken that away from him. 

He can't help but wonder who he is, what he was intended for. He thinks it has to have something to do with life or warmth, because the space around him had been bled through with something unexplainable. 

Like a quiet miracle. 

He takes off after him before he can even think about how really not good of an idea it is. The other deity is clearly frightened of him, but Molly feels compelled to follow. To explain himself maybe, to apologize-- to ask his name perhaps. 

He's not sure why exactly, but he's already moving before he can stop himself. 

 

 

\--------------//----------------

 

Caleb had expected Morrígan to give chase.

They hadn't been one for subtlety or subdued pursuit before and he isn't surprised they aren't now. 

He _is_ surprised by the way he can't seem to get his own limbs to function properly. He keeps stumbling and knocking into the crowd, his head filled with red and the fact that he knows what the other wants from him. 

He was already trapped once by a mortal and he won't want to be trapped by anyone ever again. 

He remembers what they asked for at the edges of that forest; his hand, for him to live below with them. And he didn't miss the way Nott had snarled and refused to let them see him and Caleb had been grateful for her over-protectiveness for once because he didn't want to face them either. 

He wishes he had some kind of teleportation, some way to disappear into smoke or mist and get back to the forest, but he has nothing. 

He can bring things into being and he has fire now, but what good will that do him against a deity that far predates his existence?

Death is what always chases life and he should have remembered that. 

His toe catches on an errant cobblestone and he falls into a particularly large humanoid who brushes him off and he goes slamming into the cobblestone with a strangled yelp. The crown of blue flowers tumbles from his head and he watches it clatter to the ground in front of him. He reaches for it, dazed and frightened---

A lavender hand snatches it up just as quickly and the petals immediately start to wilt. He tries to scramble back, but he's trapped in by the crowd milling about around him and he can't get away. He looks up and all he can see is more red. 

“I'm sorry if I gave you a bit of a fright there--” 

He doesn't stop to think about how the voice is different, about how Morrígan never wore so many colors or had so many sprawling tapestries inked into their skin. 

He grabs the wrist holding his relinquished crown and he calls forth that latent fire that burns beneath his skin. 

 

 

\-----------------------------//---------------------------

 

 

Molly hadn't expected the man to fall.

He honestly felt pretty bad about it after the fact and for a moment he had contemplated stopping and letting the poor, scared thing make his escape. 

Another part of him _needed_ to know why the fear had been there in the first place, and an even more confusing part of him was telling him he needed to talk to the him, just be near him. And he didn't know what that was about at all.

He watches the flowers tumble to the ground, easily catching up in time to swiftly pick them up from where they've fallen. 

“I'm sorry if I gave you a bit of a fright there---” 

He can barely get the words out, barely comprehend the burning gold seeping into the blue irises, before fingers suddenly curl around his wrist.

He hisses, reflexively wrenching out of the other's grip, eyes wide and frozen in place, transfixed by his freed limb. There's a burn in the shape of fingers and a palm wrapped around it now and his brow furrows. He looks back to the man, but he's already back to his feet and escaping into the crowd once more. The flower crown he picked up slumps into decayed dust and he lets it drift from his fingers, a bad taste lingering in his mouth with it all. 

He doesn't keep chasing him. 

He's never seen someone so frightened of him before. That man had looked at him like he was a _monster_. 

 

 

\----------------------//-------------

 

Caleb makes it back to the leyline, shaking, keeping himself upright best he can as he stumbles along it. He pulls at that tugging sensation beneath his sternum and let's himself get whisked away, back to the woods. 

And he never should have left.

He knows Nott has noticed him missing at this point. Knows that she'll have questions and concerns-- that she'll never let him leave the confines of these woods again if he tells her what happened.

He slowly picks his way back to the hut, through the towering deciduous trees, the golden glitter among their boughs matching the fey nature of this place. He follows the familiar trail of softly luminescent, yellow, and trumpet shaped flowers. Up terraced stone steps, over-grown and kept just clear enough to traverse, and to a squat structure that's so overgrown and taken by the trees it's hard to tell where the trunks end and it begins. 

The rickety door slams open before he can even get up to the front steps. 

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Her physical form is a small goblin girl, but she is far, far older than him. 

He is but a child to her. 

He remembers when she spoke of times when new life was her responsibility, of when the seasons were only summer and winter and when Caduceus and her were the only guardians of the harvests and the changes of life.

She said it was a gift when he came along. 

That after the first calamity everything had changed, that the task of shifting the world was far greater than it used to be.

Even still there is no autumn, the burden of that still falls upon Caduceus’ shoulders and the god, for as tall as he is, seems to be heavily shrunken by the burden of it as the seasons go on. 

Always too pale and too thin looking.

Nothing like the seething visage of Nott ahead of him. 

Caleb winces at the burning yellow eyes aimed right at him. She may be less than half his height, but her presence always feels far larger when she's angry.

“You went into that town didn't you?” 

He says nothing and she frowns. 

“Caleb, I told you not to go back ther--” 

He cuts her off, hands balled into fists and shoulders hunched. “You don't own me. You can't just keep me confined here forever.”

Maybe it's petulant, maybe it's childish, but he doesn't need her to protect him. 

He can do that himself. 

Her face softens at his words and he almost hates it worse than her anger. 

“... I'm just trying to keep you safe.” 

He knows she is. 

He knows why too. 

There's still a raised series of marks coiling up his right arm, carved sigils that shine silver and once bled gold. He knows where they are, each and every one, knows it unfailing and _intimately_. He hides them beneath soft wraps of red velvet and he tries not to ever look at them, even when they itch, even when they ache like they've been carved into his arm again. 

“What happened?” 

He grimaces, averting his gaze.

He doesn't know how she always manages to know when he's upset. She once said she can 'see his light change', but he's never shared the ability to see the auras of others like she can. 

“...Morrígan.” 

Nott scowls, brow scrunching and almost confused. "They came after you?” 

“ _Ja.”_

She inhales with a sharp hiss and holds up a finger, there's a barely contained wildfire in her eyes. “One moment.” 

She turns on her heel, stomping through the tilted threshold and Caleb reluctantly follows after her.

It's not a very large space and they don't need much considering most of their days are spent outside unless it is fall and winter. Two beds, a bookshelf, a desk for writing and keeping track of things or noting down issues with the harvests and things the Council may need to know that Nott can bring to their attention. It serves as a safe haven during the colder months mostly, when the two of them leave the jobs to Caduceus and stay inside until the colder seasons pass. 

The heated words from where Nott is glaring down into a portent bowl gives Caleb the distinct sensation of feeling like a child whose parent has been set out to fight for him because he can't do it himself. 

It's uniquely demeaning and he grits his teeth. 

He's a full blown deity just like any of the others. 

Maybe he's a bit young compared to her, a good amount of isolated (both from his own inclinations and at Nott's behest), but he's not a. 

“Nott, it is not a big deal---” 

“No, it's a pretty big deal, because this shit should have stopped when Morrígan died and came back as someone else.” 

He freezes from where he's started thumbing through his small collection of mortal literature, trying to ignore this while matter, and he looks back over his shoulder at her.

“ _Was_ , I don't-- “

Her face is pinched and the usual flame of fire and snapping life in her eyes is subdued as she looks away from him. 

“I won't lie,” she starts, huffing and setting aside the silver bowl. “I-- I kept it from you, especially after everything that happened--” 

Her eyes dart to his covered right arm and he tries not to flinch at that. “I kept you away from him as well. The new one I mean.... I was afraid that this might happen and I didn't want to risk it.” 

He's still confused. 

He remembers them dying. He had never heard a single word of the god returning either, never heard that he had come back changed. 

“I thought they died during the second--”

“No, they definitely came back, but they-- _he's_ different. He was supposed to be at least.” 

Caleb remembers the brief flash of fear and hurt mirrored in the other's eyes when he had burnt him and he thinks he might have not been thinking as clearly as he thought. 

Nott is already moving about, packing things into a small satchel at her side and slipping a cloak; the inside scattered with faint star light and obfuscation, over her shoulders. He remembers when she got it, the vestige given to her by the distant patron of one of the twin moons after she had helped his sister. 

“I need to go speak with Yasha at the Sanctuary. Stay here until I get back this time, _please_.” 

He wants to tell her it might have been a misunderstanding, that she doesn't need to go, that her anger might be unfounded, but she's already slipping out the door and down the path towards the leyline.

He doesn't think she would stop to hear him out anyways, her simmering fury already far too great and only growing. 

There's a chirrup next to his foot and Caleb looks down at the fey creature staring up at him. 

“At least you always listen to me,” he bundles the vaguely feline fey into his arms, the markings along his fur shining a content golden-yellow amongst the fire brand oranges, paw-pads glowing in time with them as he purrs.

His _Kleine Feuerkatze_.

He's not sure why the fey had taken a liking to him, but ever since Nott given him fire Frumpkin has been following him around endlessly. 

And there's a vague memory.

Of a time forgotten and lost to mortality where he thinks he may have had a similar companion, a time when golden blood did not run through his veins and things were far less complicated. The creature had been far simpler and duller, its fur less intricately carved by patterns and features soft. He had given this one the very same name that he could recall from that bygone era, and even with how childish and silly as it sounded the fey creature does not seem to mind the title. 

Frumpkin trills up at him, his eyes a melting liquid and gold fire and Caleb wonders just what fate he's condemned the patron of death to. 

 

 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

Molly is _not_ sulking. 

He's just sitting in the absolute dark. 

The candelabras lining the onyx walls snuffed out and the sharp obsidian of the gaudy throne digging into his back as he slouches against the arm of it. His legs thrown over the other side, head tilted back as he stares listlessly and lifelessly at the veins of dark silver that inch across the smooth, stone ceiling.

It's hard not to think about that look he saw on the other deity's face, like he thought Molly would eat him alive if he so much had given him the chance. 

He's definitely _not_ sulking about it though, not at all---

“Oh, geeze... you're sulking.”

He groans, slipping further down into the throne, spine uncomfortably bending, but he doesn't even care. Because now Beau's here and he doesn't want to deal with her right now. 

“I assume it has something to do with why Yasha just got her ear chewed off?”

Molly slumps even further, tucking his chin against his chest. 

“Come on, you couldn't have fucked up that bad.” 

“I think I did...” he mumbles into the dark. 

There's a snap of fingers, the candles flaring to life and he shoots a glare at the now illuminated, grimacing goddess. 

“Stop being pathetic for five minutes, Molly." She crosses her arms, raising a brow at him, like she's waiting for him to move. 

He sighs, and he has to admit, probably a bit dramatically, righting himself in the stone structure he really kind of hates right now. It's lifeless and cold-- and it digs into all the wrong places whenever he sits in it. 

“I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding.” Beau continues in lieu of his non-answer. 

Misunderstanding or not, he knows Yasha is gonna tear him a new one….and not just for this either. He swipes a hand down his face and rubs at his jaw, kneading away the tension there.

He still says nothing though.

“Come on, let's go see what she has to say about this.” 

She brushes her fingers against his arm hanging off the armrest and he doesn't have time to draw back and avoid it before there's a pop, a displacement of air, and he's spiraling and falling, slamming into dew-stepped grass that reeks of ozone. 

He coughs, head still reeling before he finally collects himself. 

“I fucking hate it when you do that, you know..." he grumbles into the dirt and Beau just laughs, stepping over him, her sandals clicking on the path of inlaid marble he knows is somewhere nearby. 

He leverages himself up after a long moping moment, popping his spine with a groan. He really, really does hate when she does that without warning him and he knows she's all to aware of it too, because she does it _all the damn time._

He looks around at the sunlight bathed topiary he's in now. There's the distant rumble of thunder and he can see the dark, swollen clouds that conceal and ring about the Sanctuary. There's the occasional fork of lightning among them and he's nervous at the sight of it.

Yasha’s peeved about something and he thinks it might be him. 

He trudges up the marble stone path, past the reserved garden of soft blues, stormy greys, and softly glowing flowers he knows can never exist below this mountain glen. There's a small stone inlaid into the ground just before the path turns into steps and a towering marble foyer. It's the former Storm Lord's symbol.

He only knows because Beau had told him when he asked about it in the beginning, when everything had been grand and confusing, wholly alien and strange to him. He had been perplexed at the very idea that there had been someone before Yasha, that she wasn't always the leader of their little council of mythical mysteries and curiosities.

They weren't the only Council in existence either, which had thrown him for a loop as well. 

There were others, or at least that's how it had been explained to him. The council he was (sometimes reluctantly) part of presided over the affairs of the East and the other presided over the West. They each helped keep the realms in line and they had their different tasks to accomplish and oversee throughout the material and immaterial planes. 

Splitting the power up had apparently been Yasha's idea after the Second Calamity. She wanted to ensure that there was always a balanced and watchful eye on all the realms occurrences to ensure that no calamity ever sundered them again. 

Molly has only personally met a few of the members of the West council himself and they were just as strange and eclectic as the little circle of deities he calls friends here. 

Speaking of strange--

Jester is in the threshold of the hall, trying to feed one of the pastries she likes to collect from the mortal realm to a fey creature on Shakäste’s shoulder. The small hummingbird looks very unimpressed and the deity himself seems highly amused by her futile efforts. 

“Do you think Duchess Stacy prefers chocolate or vanilla?” 

“I don't think she prefers either, hon.” 

“Aw, but I was _sure_ I would find something she liked this time.” 

“She already likes you plenty enough, you don't need to bribe her everytime.” 

If a mystical bird of unexplainable origin could roll it's eyes Molly is pretty sure he would have just witnessed it.

Shakäste looks to him as he enters the hall, eyes blank and mist white as always. 

The story of how that had happened is an odd one for him to fathom to this day. 

Beau told him that far before the first calamity, even before her and many of the others, that Shakäste had stolen from the gods and given the gift of fire to the early humanoids. Sympathetic to their plight and pitying of the fact that they could not see in the eternal darkness that wreathed the lands during that desolate time. He had his sight taken away for it, stolen by those old, primordial titans of iron fists and mercilessness. The fey creature (of minor nobility in her home realm apparently) he made a pact with helps him see and Molly has never seen one without the other. He still doesn't know the story of how their whole deal happened exactly, but he's sure it's a very interesting one.

“Oh, Molly, Molly, Molleeeey~" Jester; the goddess of the sun, bounds up to him, radiant as ever and far too enthusiastic for him right now. “Did you go to the Festival?” 

She's wearing a simple bright white sun dress today that shimmers a faint gold even without the aid of light. It, oddly enough and like every outfit she wears, always seems to compliment the blue tones of her skin and hair, adding a faint sheen of light to the whole of her. She's also the only other one in the Council stuck with a physical vessel that's a tiefling. 

“I did." And he can't help it coming out a bit dour and clipped.

Jester's smile falters, the light flickering with it. “Oh, gosh-- Did something happen while you were down there?” 

“Is it safe to assume it's got something to do with why Nott tore through here a few seconds ago?" Shakäste cuts in, frowning and arms crossed. 

He winces. 

He had only been face to face with the patron of summer once before and it hadn't been him on the chopping block that time. She was merciless when it came to protecting whatever she loved or faced with the things she hated. If he had known she was somehow involved with the deity he had unknowingly scared the absolute daylights out of he would have steered clear and then some. 

He still remembers her practically turning Saundor into charcoal before Yasha and Allura had banished him to the immaterial planes with the remnants of the other Betrayer gods. 

He can hear raised voices further down the hall, bouncing around the columned space of the long foyer. The Council Hall is down there and he knows he needs to get this over with sooner or later. 

He turns to Jester, mock saluting and shooting her a weak grin. “If I don't come back out I want a good and hardy send off. Alcohol, ambrosia, tears, long winded and unnecessary eulogies, the whole lot of it, you got that?” 

“Don't be such a baby, Molly." She rolls her eyes, links her arm in his and starts to drag him down the hall. 

He contemplates digging his heels in and protesting, but he might as well let himself be dragged to the wolves sooner rather than later.The second he passes into that circular yawning hall of unoccupied thrones and unstained marble there's already someone yelling at him-- which isn't outside of the norm. 

“Hey! What the _fuck_ are you doing scaring my boy like that?!” 

There's a flare of heat and he can see fire skittering over the arms of the little goblin bearing down on him and in that moment he knows: _he fucked up_. 

“Nott, wait until we hear his side of things before jumping to conclusions,” Yasha’s voice rolls as clear as thunder and Nott thankfully stops, still scowling at him however, eyes flickering dangerously. 

“Molly." Yasha addresses him from upon her throne, atop the furs of beasts he knows she's slain and others someone far before her did. 

She is clad in her usual vestments of storm greys and blacks. The short cloak of deep blue fur wrapped about her shoulders and the Storm Warden's blade resting against the arm of the throne, idle arcs of electricity skittering across the dark steel. 

Beau is leaned against the other arm of it, smirking at him, and looking for all the world as smug as she can be about all of the proceedings. Molly shoots her a glare and she only laughs. She had warned him not to be an idiot after all and he had immediately gone and mucked it up the second she turned her back.

“Uh.. well, in my defense..." He shifts on his feet, warily glancing over at Nott who is trying to will him into flames with her eyes alone. “I didn't _mean_ to scare him.” 

The goddess’ eyes dart down to the burn still circling his right wrist. “Bullshit!” 

He takes a wary step away from the steadily rising heat. 

“I'm telling the truth!" And he has to. This place doesn't allow lies to be said within its walls. 

One of its many annoying perks. 

“Then why did you chase after him when he ran?”

He grimaces. 

That's a good fucking question. 

“I'm sure Molly didn't _mean_ to chase after Caleb,” Jester pipes up from where she's fiddling with one of the thrones, rearranging the collection of nets and sea-faring gear strewn at its feet as a marker of its usual, but currently vacant, occupant. He thinks she might be making a vaguely phallic-shaped picture out of the nets and he can't help smirking at the sight. 

He's never heard the name Caleb before. Not uttered around him at least or mentioned by the Council, let alone by Nott. He also, admittedley doesn't exactly… listen a whole lot unless someone sits him down to talk one on one. And he's certainly never seen the other at any council meeting before either.

“This isn't anything new though and that's why I'm pissed.” Nott crosses her arms, leveling all of them with a withering look. 

“What do you mean?” Yasha leans forward, clasping her hands, elbows propped on her knees and eyes a mismatched storm. 

Beau seems highly intrigued by this development as well, along with the others, as they've all stopped to stare at the small patron of summer. 

He's never done anything like this before.And he would like to clarify that he _wasn't_ chasing after this Caleb fellow, not deliberately at least. 

“Morrígan used to hound him all of the time. Kept coming to our forest, trying to find their way in and around the wards constantly.” 

There's a chorus of confused questions and exclamations that follows that and Molly is just trying to ignore the unsettling crawling of nerves at the back of his neck at the mention of who he was before.

“Wait, Morrígan was doing that shit to you guys?” 

“Why didn't you tell us?”

“I could have put something up to keep them away if you'd asked.” 

Nott laughs and it's more of a sneer, her arms crossed tightly, and eyes narrowed as she stares up at Yasha, “ _I_ didn't say anything because you were all so chummy with them I assumed you would turn a blind eye to it. Kord always did for these kinds of things.”

From what Molly knew about the former Storm Lord from Beau, the god had been mostly benevolent, but he had also been highly neutral in the affairs of the lands and the other gods. Turning a blind eye to many of the happenings that eventually led to the Second Calamity. 

Nott shoots a withering glare towards Shakäste. “And we can protect our own, thanks.” 

Her fists are balled at her sides and the air around her snaps with a dangerous heat. 

“Nott, I didn't know. I would have done something about it if I did." Yasha ducks her head, face soft and lined with worry.

Nott waves her off. “You were busy and you weren't in charge yet.” 

“Doesn't mean I wouldn't have stopped to help you." She frowns. “The seasons are important. We can't have someone stealing one of you away on a whim.” 

Molly feels odd, they're talking about something his body had done, but it doesn't feel like he would ever deliberately do any of that. He can't help but feel guilty for something he never did the more they talk about it though. 

“Well, there's a lot you didn't know about Morrígan,” Nott sneers, lip curling, fire crackling along her fingers. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Before the Second Calamity I used to-- Well, I would hear them talk about things...alarming things. Wanting to lord over the mortal realm and their own realm as well." 

“You don't think--?”

“I don't know...” 

Molly isn't quite sure what to think.

He's only been around for a blip in their scope of existence and he doesn't know what the hell they are talking about now. But he feels like he's entitled to know considering that person had this body before him. 

There's a lot they haven't told him.

A lot that he's just brushed off and covered up over the seasons, the decades-- because honestly he doesn't like thinking about them.

It makes it feel like this isn't his body, that he's just an imposter walking around in a skin that could peel away at any second. Sometimes, he thinks if he tries to think about the past to hard he might forget who he is. It's why he smothered the strange, eye-shaped markings on his vessel's skin with even more tattoos, hoping that the distractions of color would keep him from staring at them for too long. 

“Either way, keep him--" She jabs a finger in his direction that crackles gold and orange. “Away from my boy or I'll make sure he stays away.”

He throws his hands up, exasperated. She can't just decide who he's barred from or not. “Hey, hey, now wait a bloody minute, don't I get to explain myself at least?” 

Nott levels him with a burning, withering look. “You have five seconds.” 

Not a lot but he'll take what he can.

“Okay, look, I don't know I just saw him at the Festival and I wanted to talk to him, but he ran and I was--” Intrigued, enthralled, enraptured, curious, apologetic. “-- _worried_ because he seemed far too frightened of me.” 

“Then maybe you should have thought about what it would look like if you went after him,” Nott growls.

He tilts his head, lips pursed. 

That's a fair point. 

“Can I at least apologize to him in person?” He ventures, hopeful for a second chance. 

Nott looks him over, narrowed eyes burning and bright and boring into him. “Why?”

He wants to see him again, wants to find out what he sounds like. He wants to know if that tingling allure of life is as potent up close as it is at a distance. He doesn't know why he wants to know, he just does. 

He also really, really wants to bridge whatever gap is between them because he never wants to see that look of absolute terror aimed at him ever again. 

“Just want to patch things up.”

The goddess purses her lips, eyes flicking over him for a moment. 

“Fine.” She snaps her fingers and a dancing flame halos her fingers. “But if you try anything I'll make you wish you were dead.” 

Molly nods, smiling weakly. “Understood loud and clear.” 

Yasha sits back in the marble throne, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. “If we're done here I have some matters to attend to. I'm glad you too could work this out and I hope we won't be having similar problems in the future. “

She levels him with a stare that bores into every inch of him. 

“Mhm.” Molly nods, the forks of light reflected in her mismatched eyes making him distinctly nervous. 

“I'll make sure we won't.” Nott bites out beside him.

“Good." She waves her hand, dismissing them and turning to converse with Beau at her side. 

“Allura should be here soon, she says that the immaterial plane has been restles--” 

He tunes Yasha out, disinterested in the politics of the realms. He _should_ probably care considering he is supposed to be the ruler of one of the most important ones in the whole scheme of things, but it's hard to care about something he doesn't like. 

Nott is already stomping her way out into the hall and down the foyer and he quickly follows. She turns to glare at him as they walk. 

“One inkling of funny business and I start melting off your fingers.” 

He knows she isn't bluffing. He's seen her do it once before.

“I promise I won't try anything.” 

She laughs, “Your promises mean _nothing_ out here.” 

There's the popping snap and glitter of gold indicating the use of a leyline into the Sanctuary grounds and Molly glances over to see Allura Vysoren enter the gardens. She's as radiant and unaging as ever, draped in a trailing blue dress with gold trim and a circlet of gold settled in her double-braided blonde hair. 

He still can't imagine her taking down the entire Conclave almost single-handedly during the second calamity, but Beau swears up and down she did just that. The goddess of order and the patron of mysticism and arcana is older than almost all of them. Molly had only seen her a few times before, the first time had been at Saundor's trial when he had first witnessed the halls of The Keep in the West and the gods that milled among them. 

Molly curls his lip up at the figure behind her. 

Ensconced in dark robes and darker clothes is Assum; the patron of truth.He assumes Allura keeps him around for security reasons but Molly can't help but be unnerved by the man. The other's eyes always seem to track him and everytime he has been forced to interact with him one on one the god refuses to use his new name. Saying Morrígan like he expects him to suddenly remember something, watching his face for any hint of recognition. 

Molly had told Beau, but the goddess just told him to give people time to adjust and that she would handle it if it kept happening. He never got around to bothering Beau about it again after the first time. It always seemed like too much of a hassle anyways. And he rarely has to interact with the god anyways. 

He can tell Beau's task of helping him adjust is aggravating to her sometimes, that she gets frustrated when he doesn't know something, but she tries her best. She didn't ask to get assigned the task of teaching him the ropes of this convoluted society and he doesn't want to burden her more than he has to. 

But Assum always smells a bit like rot, and sometimes-- sometimes there's a flash of something behind his eyes that is unnerving. The whole form of him feels a bit off, a bit fuzzy around the edges, but Molly knows it _can't_ be a disguise, because the Geas would nullify it once he enters that marble monolith. 

He's probably just paranoid. 

The others don't seem to notice it and he's just the new guy here so what does he know, right? 

“You coming or not?” Nott asks, pulling Molly away from where he's staring down the god now making his way into the foyer. 

“Yup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some basic definitions/explanations of shizz- 
> 
> -They are phycisal beings and can be physically injured and even killed, but they are stronger than mortals and can generally avoid being hurt by them and have powers that far exceed that of the magic granted to the mortal realm. 
> 
> -Vestiges (in this at least) are items imbued with a gods powers or traits. Sometimes It is a weapon or item passed down from the first line or created in the beginning and often lost to time and found again. 
> 
> -Leylines are methods of transportation that span across the realms in crisscrossing networks. They start and end in specific points and only those with a gods blood can use them for travel. Maintained by the Goddess of Nature and the Elements. 
> 
> -Portent Bowl is a simple silver engraved bowl that can be filled with water and used to communicate through an identical one. 
> 
> -The Geas is the magical aura imbued over the Sanctuary at the top of the Cyrios Mountains. It makes it virtually impossible to disguise oneself or lie within its reach. 
> 
> \- The Sanctuary used to be called the Temple, but Yasha didn't like the name as much and she wanted it to be known as a place any of them could come for help. The West meeting place/council hall is called The Keep. 
> 
> \- The Savalier Wood is what Caleb and Nott and Caduceus live in and it is on the material and mortal plane, but within its borders it toes the line of material and immaterial and fey creatures and other mysteries bleed through the woods. It's obfuscating nature makes it so lost and wandering mortals do no accidentally stumble within its borders. 
> 
>  
> 
> Basic timeline for some events in case its confusing because god knows keeping it straight in my head is a chore among all of the other shit I have planned out-
> 
> Caleb is made the patron of spring after the first calamity, Caleb is pursued by Morrigan previous to the second calamity, Caleb is captured by currently unnamed human after the second calamity. It's only been a blip of time in the scope of things since he's been freed and this was the first time he left the woods in awhile.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly has never been to the Savalier Wood.

He's only ever heard about it in passing. Heard that it glows faintly gold and that light seeps from every inch of it. Even at night, when the creatures of the woods flit about the trees, the markings on them illuminating the dark and the flowers glowing alongside the lichens.

He couldn't have ever fathomed this though. This biome where the trees themselves have a faint shimmer to them and there's almost the sound of whispers in the air like they're speaking to one a other. 

It's honestly a lot to take in all at once. 

Nott hadn't said much since they took the leyline back and Molly could have just transported both of them here using his own methods, but he respects the goddess’ space and he's not too keen on poking the bear right now. 

“So…" he starts, eyes trailing over the softly glinting flowers they've been following through the woods. “Which season is Caleb?”

“You don't know?” Nott asks, seemingly genuinely surprised. 

Molly shrugs. “I don't really ask around about others unless it's important or Beau thinks I should know about it.” 

He has been a bit tangled up in trying to figure out how to run an entire realm ever since he woke up and that's left little room for gossip or trying to figure out who everyone was. Gustav, Boson, and the others have done their best to maintain the realm of the dead around him, teaching him the ropes, and not so subtly trying to get him even more involved in the workings of it than he has been. Admittedly, he oftentimes dodges their efforts as much as he can. And Gustav is doing a fine job with it all anyways. 

“Spring..." Nott finally says, pausing and looking back at him like she's waiting for him to realize something profound. “He's spring.” 

“Huh.” 

Well he had been right at least. He had something to do with life and new beginnings. 

“You really don't--" She starts, still not continuing on, eyeing him almost suspiciously. “Did you not even hear about what happened?” 

Molly tilts his head, brow furrowed. “About what?” 

No one had told him anything to do with spring before.

He just assumed the seasons ticked on and by and did what they did because of someone, but he never thought to inquire about them so heavily. 

“Don't you remember when there was that famine?” Nott nervously wrings her hands and Molly wonders what has her so perturbed. 

“The one that lasted about... maybe half a century?” 

Yes, he definitely remembered that. Annoying thing it had been. 

There had been an influx of souls to sort and file through and he had been thrown into helping the others figure it all out fulltime, because they couldn't possibly handle the droves of mortal souls entering the gates alone.

“Of course I do. It was quite the headache after all, but what's that got to do with him?” 

“Ikitho--” She cuts herself off, grimacing and picking at the loose wraps covering her hands. "There was a man who thought he could harness the power of life for his own gain. He took Caleb away from me... disrupted the harvest cycle for all that time without giving a single shit.” 

Oh… That. 

Mortals are funny like that. Always trying to escape their deaths and constantly weedling and needling out of the clutches of him. He's not sure why they're so scared of the inevitable, but he never fathomed someone would try and escape it by doing _that_. 

“How… how did he do it?” He asks quietly, subdued in the dipping hush of the forest around them, chilled by the idea of being forced into servitude by what is essentially an ant to them. 

He can't even begin to fathom being at the mercy of a mortal's whims. 

“Ancient magic.. _terrible_ ancient magic..." Nott gestures to her right arm. "We-- We tried to remove the sigils from the binding ritual but we couldn't get them off.” 

“Shit...” Molly hisses. 

He knows what it's like to have marks on his skin he never wanted there. The nine crimson eyes smattering him in random spots are still visible even with his best efforts to cover them up with even more markings. 

Nott nods, continuing on. "So, uh, avoid-- avoid looking at the wraps if you can, he doesn't like anyone staring at them.” 

Molly is quiet for a moment, unsure what to say. 

She didn't have to share anything about Caleb's past to him, but she did, and he's grateful he's not walking in completely blind even if he doesn't understand why she told him in the first place. 

“You didn't have to tell me all of that you know, I'm just here to apologize.” 

“I just want you to know what not to do since you already fucked up so much." She glances back at him, “...And you don't seem _too_ bad.” 

"Aw." Molly smirks.“Does that mean you like me now?” 

“Shut up.” 

They continue in silence for a bit, the buzz of strange insects flitting around them matched by the chatter of creatures hiding in the trees around them. A large, bumbling, and very _blue_ bumblebee stands out amongst them and Molly watches it drift by, brow cocked at the peculiar sight.

This forest is quite the odd one indeed. Much more colorful than below and much more alive for sure. 

It's not long before they arrive to a series of winding steps and he trails his eyes up them to a squat shack, hidden amongst the trees. A ramshackle thing, with a thatched roof overgrown with moss and sprouting a variety of flora he's never seen before. The walls look like reclaimed parts of trees and boards that might have been found outside the borders of the woods. Overall, very homely and simple in construction, nothing like the grand monolithic obsidian palace he calls home below. 

Nott makes her way up the terraced stone steps, spongy and overgrown with the same lichens and moss. Glowing flowers line the right side of them and swirl into a spiral just at the foot of the entrance and he follows her up them, to the foot of the shack, a rickety, weathered door greeting them.

“Nott?” He stops her before she can knock on the door. “He's more than just dead, right?”

He doesn't even have to elaborate, the goddess knows exactly what and who he is talking about if the flare of fire in the yellow is anything to go by. 

“Yes..." And she raps her knuckles against the wood, stepping aside, arms crossed. 

 

 

\----------------------------------//---------------------------

 

 

 

There's the sound of a knock on the door and Frumpkin is up and out of his lap in an instant, staring at the door, low burning flames flickering along his back.

“I'm sure it's just Nott..." he soothes, setting down the well-worn book he had been reading. 

Caleb opens the door, blinking at the harsh light and squinting against it. He turns his head to see Nott waiting to the side of the uneven door jamb, but she's not looking at him. He follows her line of sight, brow furrowing and he freezes when his eyes meet red. 

His initial reaction is to take a step back, nerves skittering along his back and down to thud behind his sternum, but he stops... because it isn't Morrígan. 

The god still standing one step down on the terraced path, booted foot still poised over the next step, and looking up at him like he might bolt is nothing like the other god. 

Caleb didn't think it was possible for one individual to be so colorful for one thing. 

The god is positively swathed in hues from head to toe. In golds and silvers and rare, precious stones glittering on his horns and adorn his fingers. His coat a bright mauve, maroon base, the inside and the hood a strange illusion of blue, patterned in black feathers and the outside embroidered in all matters of shapes with thread that seems to shimmer and shine, iridescent and ever-shifting color in the sunlight. 

The images almost seem to have a life of their own and if he focuses on one too long the others seem to swirl and _move_ around it. It's all manner of creatures and beast, mortal and fey; laced with symbols Caleb has never seen before. The sleeves a similar crazed mismatch of fabrics and textures as well, tied and split at the seams with bright red thread capped with metallic, feather-shaped aglets, revealing parts of a silky white shirt underneath. 

He's not one to judge but the undershirt itself is _alarmingly_ low cut. It's loose and not form fitting in all the ways Morrígan used to wear their clothing. And there's bindings wrapped about his chest, the peek of a tangled mess of raised and darkened dendritic scars continue up his neck in a slowly fading maze from beneath the midnight stained cloth

His pants are a strange large diamond pattern on one leg and vertical stripes on the other that disappear into dark leather, knee high, and heeled boots.The belt slung around his waist is more dark leather, pressed with even more feather patterns and with an ornate gold buckle that looks like twisting vines. 

The scimitar it contains is the only familiar thing on him, with a gold pommel, hammered into the shape of a raven’s head, a ruby inlaid into the eye. With a caged guard of lacing skeletal fingers for the hilt. He knows the scabbard holds an onyx blade that is veined like marble and seems to absorb the light around it. 

“Hello again." And the voice is so different from Morrígan's after the fate's sisters vanished. It's nothing like the Morrígan that kept trying to ask for him at the fringes of the woods. It's warmer and livelier and there's a strange lilt to it that he doesn't remember being there before. 

The tattoos are new as well. 

The purple skin he remembers being bare and swathed in clinging black robes is now covered in a strange tapestry of ink. The most visible is the peacock feathers that curl up into his cheek and feather across the jaw line and down into where Caleb can't see anymore of it. There's more on his palms and the backs of his hands, but he's distracted by the eyes that seem to be tracking his steady exploration.

“I know I look _very_ different from my predecessor, but I didn't think I would shock you into complete silence. I'm almost flattered,” he laughs and it's just as sonorous as when he speaks and Caleb can't recall ever hearing Morrígan laugh quite like that. 

He stutters, realizing he's been doing nothing except stare for quite a bit and that the other god has made his way to the top of the stairs now. 

“I, uhm…" Caleb shifts back a step. 

There's a lot to process here and it's all a little overwhelming when he keeps expecting the other to speak differently, to be someone else here. 

“Oh, no, no, I just came here to apologize for earlier, I didn't mean to spook you again.” The other god looks to Nott almost pleadingly and Caleb does the same, because honestly why didn't she warn him ahead of time. 

“You're both idiots, I swear..." Nott grumbles, stepping up between them. 

“You--" She points at the other god. “Apologize.” 

“But I just--” 

_”Apologize.”_

“Okay, okay, look." The god cards a hand through dark mauve hair, avoiding his eyes. “I'm sorry for scaring you like that, won't happen again.” 

“Good." Nott looks to him next and Caleb shrinks under her scrutiny. 

“A-- apology accepted....?” It comes out as a bit of a question at the end because honestly he's confused why the other isn't covered in more burns than just the one he gave him earlier considering how uncontrollable Nott's temper can be. 

“There we go." The goddess claps her hands and whirls on the other god pushing at his legs and trying to shove him down the steps. “ Now, _leave_.” 

“Now, wait a second can I just---” the other god protests, but Nott cuts him off. 

“No.” 

“But--” 

“I said _no_.” 

Caleb places a hand on Nott's shoulder, stopping her from where she's futilely shoving at the other and he can see the beginnings of flames starting to crackle at her fingertips. He knows she is probably nervous and angry and a million other things by now. 

“It's okay, Nott,” he reassures, “I'd like to talk to him for a moment.” 

He wants to apologize for burning him, maybe learn whatever name he goes by now... and there's something compelling about him, intriguing even and Caleb can't help but be curious. 

He also selfishly wants a closer look at the animated embroidery on that coat. 

She sputters, eyes flicking back to him and face lined with ages worth of worry. He crouches down so he's eye level with her.

“I'll be fine, just a half hour tops and I'll be back--” Caleb snaps his fingers. “---like that.” 

Nott frowns, eyes flicking to the other god. “I don't like it...” 

“I know.” 

She's never liked him leaving her sight for too long since that day. 

“Fine..." She sighs, waving her hand, “Go--whatever, but any second past thirty minutes and I tear apart this forest looking for you two and you better hope I don't find you.” She turns her glare onto the god of death and the other just shrugs helplessly, lips tilted.

“I'll be back soon.” He holds Nott's hand between his and he hopes she knows it's a promise. 

He won't leave her alone again. 

“I'll hold you to that." She pulls her hand back, shifting on her feet. “Now, go... before I change my mind.” 

Caleb smiles and even though it's small and reserved it's real all the same.

It's the first time she's let him truly have a say in where he goes in quite some time. 

“Thank you." He doesn't miss the softening of the ever present flames in her eyes when he says it. 

 

 

 

\---------------------------//--------------------

 

 

Molly hadn't gotten a very thorough look at the spring deity at the Festival, but framed in the sunlight and golds of his own realm as they make their way through the woods and away from the small shack-- there's something even more alluring about that quiet light emanating from him. 

Caleb's hair falls into nearly unruly waves and curls just below his chin and at it's longest just brushes his shoulders in tresses of fire and partial ringlets of auburn, coiling along thin collarbones and pale skin. 

And he is almost _alarmingly_ thin. Not just svelte or whip-thin, but _delicately_ , nearly dangerously thin, to the point Molly might even question if he eats enough or gets ambrosia on a daily basis. 

He has a feeling Nott makes sure the god gets plenty enough considering how overbearing she is, so it can't possibly be that.

The white shirt, that is almost a shimmery pearl upon closer inspection, practically hangs off of him and there's small embroidered cut outs along the neckline that might be tiny flowers, but it's hard to tell. The pants he has are an earthy color and worn down at the knees, weathered, leather wraps start at the ankle and wind up to mid-calf and he's _still_ as barefoot as ever. There's a simple satchel bag slung over his shoulder, a pressed leather design of two phoenixes covers the flap of it and Molly carefully avoids the thumb hooked into the strap. The wraps of carmine velvet start around the digit and wind, down around the palm and further until it dissapears beneath the loose shirt sleeve. 

There's the faintest hint of silver just at the edge of where the wrap begins, but Molly looks away from it before he can get a good look when he notices Caleb tilt his head to look at him. 

“Do you really not have any memories of this place?” 

“Nope...” Molly pops the ‘p’ kicking at a stray stone.

“So, you really aren't Morrígan then?” 

He tries not to flinch at the use of the old moniker or the utter relief in the other's voice.

“I don't go by that name anymore. It's not one I remember. You can call me Mollymauk.” 

“Mollymauk…” And it's whispered into the air where it settles. 

It's hushed and quiet, blossoms curling open to greet the moon when it's safe and dark and Molly smiles. 

“Well, just Molly to my friends." He adds, watching the strange fire touched feline fey weave around Caleb's feet and stare up at him as they walk. 

There's a pause, like the god is contemplating something. 

“Are... we friends?” 

The god has turned his head to look at him fully, eyes meeting his-- Molly would describe them as calculating, analytical even, but it doesn't fit the question the god asked. It's the first time the god has voluntarily made eye contact with him after all, and even if part of him feels like they're picking him apart-- they're also quite the distracting shade of cerulean. 

And he wonders how many of the other gods Caleb considers friends, if any. He wonders how lonely it gets out here away from everyone else but the other seasons. 

He wonders how many aspects of Caleb's life Nott controls... 

“You know what-- _Sure_ , why not? We're friends.” He agrees with a smirk, resting his hand on the pommel of his scimitar. 

Caleb just nods slowly, satisfied with his answer apparently, seemingly already distracted by something else in his own head as he looks away. The god's lips turning down into what could be a frown for a moment, eyes darting to him before turning back to the trees again, but Molly brushes it off as nothing important. 

“And yours?” He already knows it, but it's only polite to ask he supposes. 

Caleb startles like he didn't expect Molly to keep talking or ask him about himself. 

“ _Ēostre_ , but before I was this…” Those eyes look over at him again, slighlty pinched, nearly wary-- and they are blue, dripping with life." It was Caleb.” 

“It's nice to properly meet you, Caleb.” Molly can't help the wide smile on his face. 

“Likewise." Caleb’s lips twitch the barest amount in return before pursing again, but it's close enough to satisfy Molly that it had to have been a smile back. 

“I'm still sorry about ruining the Festival for you though. I swear I'm not always that much of an ass hat," Molly admits around a grin. 

Caleb huffs out a breath that could be considered a laugh, and it's a chiming little thing, not very loud and breathy like his lungs have forgotten how.

It's almost a little sad to hear. 

There's another pause of quiet, filled with the chirrups and trills of the forest and Molly is distracted by the liveliness of it. There's so much movement and vibrancy and he knows he'll be sad to leave it and return to his own quiet and dull realm soon. 

“Oh...right." Caleb perks up beside him likes he's remembered something, looking over to him, more animated than he has been this entire time. “Have you ever seen a fire butterfly?” 

Strange and quite the out-of-the blue question, but the other is so enthusiastic about it Molly would never dream to dismiss it. 

“Can't say I have, no.”

Caleb looks nearly skeptical at his affirmation, glancing away again.

“They are these beings that usually reside in the calmer parts of the fire elemental plane, but for some reason they migrate here every so often and stay in the southern parts of the woods. I think you might like them, they are very--” Caleb glances at his coat and he falls quiet like he just finally noticed he's been rambling and talking louder, and faster, than usual. “--they're very, ah...colorful.” 

“Really?” Molly can feel the reassuring grin curling up his face. 

He liked that version of Caleb. The excited and almost eccentric one. The one that felt more alive and real, not restrained by timidness and something skittish.

He can see that the god has withdrawn again though, still leading him towards where Molly can only assume these beings are, but it's almost like Caleb’s holding a part of himself back while he does it.

“They're just over here--” 

Molly stops hearing words after that-- the trees in this section are bathed in chromatics light and rainbows and prisms of delicate wings and he's not sure how he missed it.

They're glittering and shimmering, and in the steadily deepening oranges of the beginnings of early sunset they shine like _fire_. 

It's nothing he's ever seen before, nothing he thought he would ever see in his immortal lifetime.

There's so much of it, so much _color_ and its refracting and reflecting around him and he laughs because he can't think of what else to do. 

He looks back to Caleb, but the god is enraptured in the sight of them as well, eyes affixed on the resting insects. The light dances across his face and traps itself amongst the blue of his eyes and Molly watches the glimmers play across softly freckled skin. 

Caleb finally notices him staring and just smiles back, full and unrestrained and that's-- that's definitely nothing Molly has ever seen before. 

“They are beautiful, _ja_?” Caleb tilts his head, eyes narrowing at him again, like he's trying to assess something here.

“Yeah…” He breathes, not even thinking about the butterflies anymore, or the way Caleb keeps watching him nearly too carefully, caught up in whatever is stampeding around in his stomach. 

He's been attracted to an innumerable amount of people in his brief existence, and he's slept with his fair share of those same people who weren't trapped by the idea of who he used to be-- but he's never felt whatever this is.

Frumpkin trills at Caleb's ankle, teeth pulling at the fabric of his pants and the god’s eyes widen. 

“Oh, _verdammt_ , thirty minutes... right--" Caleb bundles the fire marked fey in his arms. "We should probably start heading back or else she'll eat you alive.” 

Molly just nods, head still fuzzy with whatever revelation is starting to knock around in there. He trails after the patron of spring, the image of the god bathed in prismatic fires stuck in his head. 

And oh gods. 

Oh shit. 

This isn't happening. 

Is it? 

Caleb glances back to him, brow furrowed and leaned away from him, back a tensed line. “Are you okay, Molly?” 

His stomach leaps when the other says his name and oh gods, he thinks he's started to catch something he can't give back. 

He just has to be the idiot God of Death to fall headfirst into whatever this is, be it attraction, desire, l-- 

Ha.

_Nope._

He shakes his head, smiling. “I'm all good, don't worry about me.” 

They still have quite a bit of walking to do to get back to the shack and honestly Molly is just trying not to think about what the feeling caught beneath his sternum really is-- because it certainly isn't his heart, the deadened mess of scar tissue it is. 

“I meant to ask earlier…” Caleb starts and it startles Molly out of the beginnings of his panicked introspection. “Your coat, what does the image on the back mean?” 

Molly latches onto that distraction all too eagerly. 

He knows exactly what pattern he's referring to. It's the one that catches everyone's eyes.

Three ravens; endlessly and repeatedly circling around an all seeing eye, one a mauve color, the other a bright cerulean, and the last one a dusky maroon.

“It's my sisters and me.” 

There's an audible beat of silence. 

“And do you remember them?”

It's an innocent enough question, but it doesn't stop it from hurting. 

For all of the ways Molly wants to shed every part of his unknown past from him, the absence of whoever those two may have been before was almost palpable ever since he woke up. Almost like his muscles remembered them being there even if his mind couldn't and they constantly remind him something is missing. 

“No.”

“Do you remember anything before..?” Caleb probes further, voice harder than before.

“Before I was killed?” Molly laughs.“No.”

He does though. Sometimes. There's flashes, small things that haunt him and don't make much since.

Like a grinning, leathery, blue, and tusked face, the feeling of something more dangerous than steel embedded in his sternum. Looking up at that single lone eye of a moon when he _knows_ there should have been two up there and then a storm that raises him from perdition. 

“What's it like down there?” 

He doesn't need to ask to know what Caleb means and he can tell the god wants to change the subject. Molly wonders just how perceptive he is to be able to tell how much the topic unnerves him.

“Oh, it's _absolutely_ dreadful..." he admits plainly. 

Caleb seems to startle at that, like he expected him to defend the Land of the Dead tooth and nail. 

“It's dark and dead and there's none of this--” Molly gestures around at the teeming swathes of life around them. 

“I'm sure there's something down there that isn't ‘dreadful’...”

He sneers. “I haven't found it yet, then.” 

He's met with only the sound of their footsteps mingling with the ethereal almost inaudible whispers of the trees for a moment. 

“Do you think…" Caleb trails off and Molly quirks a brow at his hesitation. “ Do you think I could see it one day?” 

Hs won't lie, that's not what he expected at all. 

“ _You_ ,of all things life and renewal, want to visit _the_ Land of the Dead?” Molly can't help sounding highly exasperated by the question.

Caleb shrugs, avoiding his eyes, brow furrowed, the line of his jaw tensed, like he's gritting his teeth before he let's the tension go. “I'm curious.”

Molly thinks about the glorified guard dog, pseudo warden, waiting for them back at the shack. 

“I'm not sure your, er, ‘guardian’ will let you go down there anytime soon.” 

Caleb frowns, looking away for a moment, fiddling with the wraps of velvet on his right arm, fingers carefully trailing over them, tracing patterns that Molly thinks might mirror the marks underneath. 

“As long as you do not plan on keeping me down there she will be fine with it." There's a glint in his eyes. “I'll convince her.” 

He's not sure Nott will listen and there's something distinctly frustrating about it that Molly feels on Caleb’s behalf. 

He knows what it's like to not be listened to. 

“If you can, then by all means, you can puruse down there all you like, but I'm telling you it's all very, very depressing,” Molly laments. 

“I'm sure it's not as bad as you make it sound..." Caleb frowns. 

Molly just sighs, because it really is and he can't put into words how much it eats at him when he's down there and everything is a reminder about how this isn't his body to begin with. 

“Maybe…” Is all he says in reply though. 

There's another long break of silence, they're closer to their destination now, the first distant hints of the boards and trunks coming into view. 

“If I---If I can not convince her, I will just go anyways.” Caleb interjects, fists balled at his sides and brow furrowed. 

Molly admittedly panics a bit at that and tries desperately to defuse the idea before it can take root, “Wait, woah, Caleb, look, I'm all for fighting the system and sticking it to the man, but maybe-- maybe don't…”

Caleb falls quiet, grimacing, eyes flicking about, and Molly can tell he wants to rebel, that the oppurtubity and the idea is there. That he's probably been stuck with order after order and maybe it was, and still is, for his own safety but Molly knows how that feels. Knows that it still hurts either way and that it's still frustrating, makes you feel small and helpless sometimes. But he really doesn't want every god within the material planes descending on him thinking he stole the other away. 

“Please." Molly can't help but fiddle with the necklace at the base of his neck as he says it. 

He won't lie, sometimes it feels more like a collar than a protective measure. He knows they don't trust him fully, that he's a liability no matter how much Yasha and them claim it's for his own safety. It still feels like a leash meant to keep him under control despite their assurances it isn't and he tries not to think about the implications of that too much or the fact that he can't ever remove it or shut it off. 

“I can-- I can ask Beau to come convince her if she's not agreeable, she's very persuasive when she needs to be." Molly tries to quickly reason, seeing the disappointment written across the other's face and it stings because he can't tell if Caleb is disappointed in him.

“You know Beau?” Caleb asks, brow furrowed and eyes distant.

“Yeah, she's my--" Babysitter, warden, trainer, the one that holds my leash. “...friend.”

He's not sure if him and the goddess are actually friends, and they butt heads often enough others might consider them more of enemies. 

“I only met her once..." Caleb whispers, covering his wrapped arm with the other and Molly doesn't have to ask what situation or context he met her in. 

He just wonders why Beau never told him about what happened to spring---

 

“You're nearly late,” Nott's voice cuts in suddenly and Molly startles.

He realizes they are at the base of the steps now, the goddess standing on the first terrace ahead of them.

There's something disappointing about it. 

He wishes he could have spent the entire day with the other god, maybe even more. He liked listening to him talk when he opened up, liked watching him be enthralled or excited or lively. 

He doesn't like the way Nott is talking to him right now though, like Molly's just some monster seeking to sully what she considers her son. 

He also doesn't really like how controlling she is when it comes to Caleb either. A part of him is tired of people telling him what to do and controlling him, so he isn't about to stand around and let it happen to someone else.

Even if the goddess’ heart is in a good place, of purely benevolent intentions, it doesn't mean that it doesn't have a malevolent or insidious impact on Caleb. And Molly can see by the way the other god has withdrawn again that it has _some_ kind of impact on him even if Nott doesn't notice it. 

“I got him back to you just fine, didn't I?” Molly puts his hands on his hips, leaning forward and raising a brow. 

He raises his arm, pulling down the sleeve to fully bare the slightly warped flesh in the shape of a handprint. It will be gone by the time he got his next portion of ambrosia, but it's proof enough that Caleb wasn't something that needed to be coddled. “Maybe have some more faith in your boy and his ability to get himself out of situations. He did just fine when he thought I was a threat after all.” 

“It's fine, Molly, I should have just listened to her the first time and not gone into town anyways.” 

Molly has the sudden urge to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, tell him he's not some demere dog that has to follow her every order, but the god is already drifting past him and up the steps and suddenly he's left there with Nott-- and the goddess is eyeing him. 

“Are you satisfied now?” 

“Hm?” Molly hums, cocking his head. 

“Are you satisfied you got your time with him so you can never come back here ever again?” 

Oh, no, now that just won't do. 

Molly grits his teeth, tail lashing. 

He doesn't like her attitude and he knows she won't like his, but he doesn't really care right now. He really doesn't appreciate the way she's talking down to him.

“ _You_ can't tell me what to do _and_ , as a matter of fact, you can't keep him locked up in these woods forever,” He bites out, pointing to where Caleb has disappeared up the steps and into the hut. 

She scowls, hands on her hips. “I'm doing what's best for him.” 

He can see she really means it, that she really thinks this is what's best for someone who's been through the situation that Caleb's been through, whatever it all entailed but it's not, it's really not. 

It doesn't take a genius to see this is the same scenario with a different and far less sinister face. 

Caleb is still trapped, but by a different warden now. 

One that probably doesn't seem as harmful or cruel, but still does the same amount of damage in a softer more subtle way. He knows what it's like to feel trapped by your own skin, by obligations you don't want, and he doesn't like to see anyone else trapped either. 

Molly laughs and its bitter and wry and he doesn't care if he sounds like a complete asshole right now, “Well it's _hurting_ him.”

She flinches back at that, fire snapping in her palm, “You don't understand--” 

“You know, he asked if we were friends..." Molly cuts her off, cynical and vitriol filled and he can see her eyes widen. “He asked it within _minutes_ of meeting me and I said _yes_ , because he seemed that desperate for anything resembling a connection with someone else outside of these woods,” 

“That doesn't-” She's fumbling for her words now and he can see she's faltering along with her conviction.

“If you won't recognize that what you're doing is bad for him then at least listen to what he has to say from time to time,” he grits out, eyes narrowed. 

Her face falls, the usual burning anger snapped away from her eyes. 

Molly doesn't wait around to see what she has to say, he unsheathes the blade at his hip, slices it down in front of him, tears a hole between the planes that writhes with shadows, and he steps through it, back into his own domain. 

He didn't miss the hurt swimming in those yellows before he left though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insight into Caleb's thoughts next chapter, cause your boi isnt as straight forward as he seems. And I love me some good protective Nott content but Molly is all about calling people on their shit even if they don't want to be called out, but I swear we'll get lighter interactions between the two in the future. This is just a minor rift that needed to happen so Nott could realize some things. 
> 
>  
> 
> Imagine Molly's weird circus jerkin coat and crazy sleeved jacket combo in canon but here it is combined into one and that's what I had in mind for his coat in this. And yes, yes I did make the embroidery on it alive because I can. And there are some specific changes to the imagery but the important one is that big one on the back. 
> 
> The sisters are a reference to Morrígan in actual mythology who was depicted with two other deities. 
> 
> I contemplated changing the peacock tattoos but peacock's already symbolize immortality, resurrection, etc. in old Christianity and Renaissance era art at least so it's very fitting. Plus the old belief was that their flesh never rotted and I thought that was also very suitable for the God of Death himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay, what up. 
> 
> We get a good peek into Caleb's head in this finally.

If anyone ever asked he would deny it til the day he faded into the Aether. 

Because he was most definitely not playing fetch with a hellhound. 

He just happened to be tossing a fallen branch from one of the many ever-decaying trees in the same direction that it was looking...and if she happened to chase after it _and_ bring it back, well he wasn't complaining.

But he was definitely _not_ playing games with a fearsome guardian of the underworld. 

Nope. 

The lithe, almost whippet shaped creature is loping back towards him again. Limbs long and slender and regal in every sense of the word and standing nearly to his mid chest at the shoulders. A picturesque creature of royalty and divine elegance and he has to admit, one of the only points of unarguable beauty in this twisted and gnarled land. 

He had expected something called a hell hound to be slobbering and grotesque. Rippling with muscles and hell fire, but instead two strangely beautiful mutts of white fur, feathers dipped in midnight wringing their necks, and figures cut from marble and living alabaster, were what he found in the depths of the obsidian halls of the pantheon. Perched at the foot of a four poster bed of midnight satin and waiting for someone that would never return. 

They had taken an immediate liking to him, their sloping, long muzzles had pulled back into dopey open-mouthed and panting grins and Molly couldn't help but love the stupid things at the first sight of them.

He's not sure where the other one is right now though. 

They seem to have minds of their own, often wandering off and he doesn't actively work to stop or impede them from their travels. 

He figures they need their freedom as much as he does.

There's a slobber covered stick dropped at his feet and he picks it up with a small grimace. And he can't help but indulge the thing because she's looking at him with the biggest and roundest cerulean eyes he's ever seen and who is he to tell her no? 

That would make him the biggest asshole in the underworld and he can't have that. 

She doesn't yip, excitedly hop on her feet, or even wag her tail when he picks up her quarry. She just watches him, eyes locked onto the object in his hand and elongated ears perked forward, rapt and alert, honed in on her prey. 

There is no denying that for all the delicateness in their outward appearance these hounds are hunters, killers even. Their eyes sharp, teeth even sharper, and figure built to pursue and run down and kill as swiftly and effectively as possible. He's never seen them in action but he thinks any mortal soul worth their salt would know not to attempt to run if they saw them. 

There's something primordial about them, something unspokenly dangerous about the way they pin the world with their eyes and Molly can't help but admire it. 

Maybe he had spoken too hastily when he shot down Caleb’s attempts to reason with him. 

Maybe there was something ‘not dreadful’ down here after all...

And speaking of the patron of spring and life Molly hasn't heard from him or seen him in days and there's something a little bit depressing about that. He's been afraid to poke at Beau and tell her what happened and he's even more leery to ask her to check in on the seasons for him. Nor has the goddess even been around for him to bother anyways. 

It's been a lonely past few days honestly. 

And the underworld has been unusually quiet. 

The usual trickle of souls into the gates has lessened to such an extent that Gustav and the others are worried, but Molly thinks maybe the mortals are finally learning.

Learning how to stop killing each other, how to stop plagues, prevent famines, and improve their medicine. He's not too concerned because it means less work for him and it means it's quieter down here. The constant hum and panicked whispering of lost and frightened souls crowded at the front was always a little disheartening to listen to anyways.

He throws the stick as hard a he can, into the depths of the garden and past the bramble hedges and the bleeding, sagging flowers. The hound tears off after it, eating up the ground with every footfall, small blips of dark indigo, near black fire wisping up from each step before disappearing just as quickly.

There's the sound of a familiar pop behind him, close to the columned rear entrance to the pantheon, and he glances towards it to see Beau and a very, _very_ familiar patron of spring. 

He can't help the involuntary spark of panic, eyes darting to where the hound has disappeared to and back to them.

Beau would never let him live down the fact he was playing fetch with one of them if she found out.

He jogs up to them, mentally counting down how long it'll take for the hound to come back with how far he threw the stick. The excitement at finally seeing the god of spring is weighed out by his attempts to not look like a complete idiot in front of Beau. 

“Hey--” 

“Brought you your new boyfriend,” Beau cuts him off with a sharp grin.

“He's not--” 

“Nott said he better come back in one piece or she'll make sure there's nothing left for us to find of you.” 

“He's not my boyfriend, we just met a few days ag--” 

“Have fun, kiddos!” Beau clicks her heels with a shit eating grin and disappears in a similar puff of smoke that curls into the afterimage of wings. 

“Hey!” Molly swipes at the smoke like he can drag her out of it and explain himself to her, but she's already gone. 

And now he's here. 

Alone. 

With Caleb. 

And the other is staring at him like he's gone insane. 

 

Before he has a chance to explain himself there's the sound of loping footfalls and Molly turns to see the white furred, long snouted mutt emerge from the depths of the gnarled garden. Her eyes are locked on him before she suddenly stops, sniffing the air and her gaze immediately snaps over to Caleb, the stick falling from her mouth as she breaks into a wide mouthed and slobbering near-grin.

“No, no, hey,” Molly starts, knowing full well the dog won't listen to him once she starts tearing forwards, “Hey!” 

The hound slams into Caleb anyways, ignoring Molly’s efforts.

She knocks him to the ground and Molly grabs her by the jeweled collar and tries to yank her away with all of his strength, but it's no use.

Why did these things have to be so damn big, honestly? 

There's a strange almost wheezing and hiccupping sound and Molly is worried the dog is sending the other into some kind of panic, but it's suddenly pealing and delighted laughter. 

It sounds like any number of musical instruments and more things he can't even place. 

He's enthralled by it, his efforts to pull the mutt off going slack in light of the now practically giggling patron of spring and Molly can't help the echoing chuckles climbing up his ribcage. The laughter is infectious and bright and he wishes it would imprint itself in his skull so he can't forget what it sounds like. 

The hound backs off finally, seemingly satisfied with the amount of dog slobber she’s left on the other god's face. 

Caleb is still laughing, remnants of the fit curling his lips and flushing his face and oh-- 

_Oh, no._

There's something highly enticing about that ruddy flush. 

The freckles standing out amongst it and Caleb's skin still shiny with hellhound saliva and Molly's brain unhelpfully decides it might like what the other would look like flustered and sheened in sweat beneath him, above him and -----

He shuts that down before it goes too far. 

He has a lackluster tour to conduct afterall. 

He helps the other up, hoping his own face doesn't betray the knot of tension in his gut. 

 

 

\--------------------------------//-----------------------

 

 

 

Caleb won't lie. 

He had been testing Molly when they took that walk in woods. 

Not all of it was a test though. 

He had genuinely wanted to see his reactions to the butterflies at least, because he thought the other might appreciate something beautiful seeing as how his coat was a work of art in itself. 

But when he had asked the other if they were friends… 

That had been a test. 

And he still wasn't sure if the god had passed it. 

Caleb had whispered it, hopeful and wistful and putting all the right inflection into it that he could remember from the last time he had asked it. 

When it had been pale blue eyes and paler hair and she had whispered ‘yes’ back and he had missed all of the half truths behind her eyes because he was too caught up in everything else about her. 

Then she had handed him over… like he meant _nothing_. 

And he had agreed because she said that the man needed his help and that it would mean everything to her if he would help him and Caleb hadn't known any better. 

He had trusted everything about her...

Needless to say he was a bit wary of Molly.

The god had replied eagerly, with little hesitation and it was almost alarming how quickly he latched onto Caleb's perceived desperation. 

He almost feels bad… for giving the other god that sliver of hope, but later, when he had seen the refractions of light across sharp lavender features and glittering amongst the pools of red he thought that maybe… just maybe, he was worth trusting. 

But he had thought that before. 

And he had the things on his arm and his memories to thank for it.

And there is that paranoia too. 

That inkling of a thought in him that tells him it's a ruse. 

That this is Morrígan in a mask and that the others have just missed it. That Nott let this new version of them slip by and invade his space with vibrant colors and soft words and softer smiles. 

He's afraid that it will peel away to reveal something else beneath all of it when he finally thinks it's safe... 

The second test had been when he had asked to visit. 

Morrígan would have leapt eagerly at the opportunity, inviting him down below to be trapped there forever, but Molly had only replied with reluctance, even outright distaste for his own realm. 

Caleb hadn't been able to cover up his surprise at that, because Morrígan had only ever spun praises for the land below. Told Caleb that he could find everything he needed in those ash laden gardens and he would never want to leave once he was there. 

It was all so different from what he remembers of the other. 

And he wants to believe.

He wants to believe that this isn't Morrígan. 

That Molly is someone else, someone completely different, someone he could learn to call a friend. 

He wants to, but the things on his arm burn as a constant reminder of the last time he trusted anyone. 

That lingering sting of fear had kept him from confronting Nott about visiting down below.

The strange vein of guilt in her eyes did as well.

She had watched him when she thought he wasn't paying attention and he hadn't understood it. 

Not until she approached him. 

__

_“Caleb?”_

_He looks up from where he's reading, brow furrowing when he sees the nervous look on Nott's face._

_He's not used to her being so nervous, not around him at least. She usually covers it up around others by tapping into that heated anger and wrath caught inside her and bled gold in her eyes._

_She's _never_ been timid around him before. _

_“Are you okay?” He asks, concerned and going to stand._

_Nott winces back at that and Caleb is fully worried now. She's never recoiled from him either and there's something sad in her eyes and regretful in the way her ears have pressed back._

_“I'm fine,” she's tugging at the necklace around her neck._

_It's a simple wood chip piece with a sun carved into it and he's never asked about it after the first time. Not after she had whispered a name so sadly and so quietly he had barely caught it._

_‘Yezza’._

_He still doesn't know who he was to her, even after all this time, but he knows that whoever it was they are dead._

_He knows what grief looks like._

_He's felt it before._

_“Caleb… do you think I'm keeping you trapped here?”_

_He blinks, taken aback._

_“No, of course no--”_

_He stops._

_He stops because he's not sure._

_He can see his hesitation is eating at her, that she's shrinking further into herself like he's wounded her and he can't help but feel terrible about it._

_But he doesn't know._

_Because sometimes he feels like she is and he doesn't know how to tell her without hurting her feelings._

_“I'm so sorry,” she starts and he goes to step towards her, to comfort her, but she takes a step back._

_“It's fine Nott, you were keeping me safe, you were doing what you thought was best, it's oka--”_

_“It's not. It's not, Caleb. It's really, really not,” she's shaking her head and wringing her hands and he's worried about all the things he can see skittering around in her eyes._

_“Why?,” he says asks after a moment, brow furrowing because she was only doing what was logical._

_So what if he was frustrated by it or if it made him feel powerless sometimes?_

_At least he was safe._

_At least she wasn't alone._

_She laughs and its not humorous, it's cynical and self deprecating and barbed, not at him but herself, “I know you don't think there's anything wrong with it and that's the worst part about it.”_

_“Nott… I'm not stuck here. I can leave whenever I want even if you tell me not to. I'm not...” He glances down at his arm, “Im not bound to you. I'm _not_ trapped.”_

_He can't tell if he's convincing her or convincing himself anymore._

_He can't consider it being trapped._

_He can't because she never told him to do things he didn't want to do, she never hurt him, she never… She never did anything like that._

_But he can't explain that part of him that tells him he is._

_“Caleb… don't lie to me.”_

_He huffs out a breath and he can see Frumpkin is responding to his agitation at his feet, the fey bristling and baring its teeth like it can tell he doesn't want to answer Nott._

_“I don't know what you want me to say.”_

_“The truth,” Nott affirms._

_He can try. For her sake._

_“Sometimes--,” He tries to say it but he can't because he knows it will hurt her, that she'll shoulder every ounce of it onto herself._

_And she just watches him, eyes wide and face solemn and he knows she won't move or speak until he tangles his words together._

_“Sometimes I just want to leave,” he finally admits in one shattered breath._

_Nott nods, face scrunched and pinched, like he's confirmed everything she feared._

_“I just…there's more to this-,” he gestures to the shack in a long sweep, “this existence than these woods and this place and I want to see more of it. I know there's more out there than this and I just want to know what it looks like sometimes. I just want to be able to leave sometimes, Nott.”_

_He hadn't meant to say that much._

_He didn't intend to say it like that either, but once it started it all just tumbled out of him and he can see it's stacked up on Nott's shoulders just like he thought it would and she's sagging forward with guilt._

_“Why didn't you tell me?”_

_“I tried,” he frowns._

_And he had tried._

_Weeks after he got back, when he was trying to remember what it was like to be a person and not a thing. That it was okay to talk and to make decisions or that the marks on his arm wouldn't burn if he didn't do what he was told._

_He had tried._

_Uttered it in a soft voice, cracked with disuse and she hadn't heard him and he had given up, because he had been afraid of repercussions even if he knew there would be none._

_But he had still remembered what happened the first time he asked to leave._

__

__

_When he had just wanted to go home and he was afraid Nott would think he had abandoned her and he didn't want to do what he told him to anymore._

_“I couldn't--” Caleb tries and fails to explain himself fully so he settles for an easier route and one that makes more sense, “I didn't want to hurt you.”_

_He crouches so that he's level with her, so she can see every ounce of sincerity in his eyes. So that she can know that he doesn't blame her, that he doesn't hate her, or think any less of her._

_She finally approaches him, smaller hands cupping his face and there's a sad tilt to her lips and it echoes somewhere under his sternum._

_“Caleb,” she says and it's laced with so much sincerity and solemnity and she's staring right into him, “You could never hurt me.”_

_“You're my boy and I'm supposed to protect _you_ and I didn't and I--I can _never_ apologize to you enough for keeping you here against your will either.” _

_“It's fin-”_

_“It’s not,” She emphasizes again, “And I'll make it up to you one day. I promise.”_

_Her hands leave his face and there's an absence of curling warmth where fire leaps beneath her skin and calls to the small bit of that same fire beneath his own._

_He watches her, unable to move or say anything because he doesn't know what to say to alleviate her guilt. She looks back to him, worrying at the necklace around her neck once more._

_“Did you-- Did you want to see that Molly fellow again?” She's almost hopeful sounding, like she's eager for him to make any decision that isn't confined within the carefully established boundaries that he's set up for himself or her for him._

_He doesn't want to admit it but he does._

_There's something different about the god._

_Where Morrígan had been a chilling absence of life Molly is a vibrant burst of it and even though Caleb can almost see that necrotic shroud laid across the other's shoulders it doesn't feel the same. It doesn't feel like if he touched the other he would lose a part of himself to that searching hunger of death._

_He thinks it might feel like something else._

_He also wants to see it._

_He wants to see the halls of the underworld because he's curious and there's a wanderlust trapped in him that he's tried to ignore, but now that the option is before him he's almost too eager to take it._

_“I do,” he finally admits._

_Nott smiles._

__

 

Caleb hadn't expected to get immediately ambushed by a dog when he had shown up in the underworld and he couldn't help laughing, because it was so excited and lively and like nothing he had expected to find down here. 

Molly extends his hand after the hound backs off, the thing panting happily and sitting back on its haunches and watching him.

Caleb can't help but eye the offered help warily. 

He had touched the other god briefly at the Festival, but his intent had been to hurt him and whatever feedback there may have been had been smothered by fire. Now there is nothing between him and the other and he's admittedly afraid of what might happen if he lets the other touch him now thats he's faced with the actual possibility.

He accepts the help with his wrapped arm, keeping the contact minimal and immediately retracting it when he's up. 

He felt the faint beginnings of something there where their skin brushed at his fingertips, some crackling of opposing energies meeting, but he isn't about to linger enough to find out what it truly was yet.

Molly is watching him again and there's something in his eyes that is both familiar and makes Caleb a bit uncomfortable because he's unsure of its true intention. 

He shifts on his feet, avoiding the other's gaze and whatever he might find there that he doesn't want to see. 

Eyes are always too intimate. 

There is far too much you can see in them and he had gotten used to not meeting another's eyes for too long after everything anyways. 

It's one of the learned habits that he hasn't quite broken yet. 

“Did you want the grand tour of the place?” Molly asks, hands on his hips and the dog cocking its head beside the god like its asking him the same. 

Caleb can't help the small smile at the odd display. 

It's like the two are in perfect sync and he's not even sure Molly realizes it. 

He hadn't missed the branch in its mouth when he first saw it or its eager intent to bring it back to the other god before it seemed to latch onto his presence. 

“Were you playing fetch with it?” Caleb can't help but ask instead of answering because he's genuinely curious. 

Molly flushes and he's never seen Morrígan do that. The god's sharp cheeks are overtaken by an embarrassed dusting of ruddy lavender. 

“Uh, I mean...no?” Molly scratches at the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly and Caleb can tell he's lying plain as day. 

He can't help but laugh because he's never seen someone so genuinely flustered over being called out on playing simple games with a dog. 

“Of course, of course. No games for the guardians of the damned, right?” Caleb can't help himself, because banter is easy. 

“Ha-yup. No fun and games here. Only dour moods and depressing thoughts,” Molly is grinning and the hound looks up towards the other god. 

Caleb could have sworn the hound rolled its eyes at him… but he's probably just imagining things. 

 

 

 

\----------------------------//------------------------

 

 

 

Molly didn't miss the way Caleb had practically recoiled after he helped him up.

And he'll admit, that definitely stung a bit. 

But then he had honest to the gods teased him about playing fetch with the hellhound right after and Molly all but shoved that little incident on the back burner for now because there was something very endearing about that. 

He leads Caleb into the sprawling gardens behind the obsidian and black marble pantheon. 

It looks the same as always. 

Sagging, blackened trees with sallowed and wrinkled fruits hanging from them and not a single leaf in sight. There's flowers but they are pitiful and fleshy and they bleed from their centers like they are weeping, sprouting from gnarled swathes of impossibly groomed and twisted bramble. And there is grass, but it is grey and powdery and layered with something like soot. 

There's also that ever existent faint and eerie presence of light that keeps this realm illuminated. Pinpointing the exact source is impossible and looking up only reveals a sprawling blanket of stalagtites that stretches on for miles in every direction. 

They walk along the semi reflective path of dark, broken slate hewn into the earth here and the hound weaves around the two of them. Sticking her nose almost fully into the occasional bruise colored flower, inspecting the brambles, and then trotting back to nose at Caleb’s hand until the god scratches her behind the ear. 

And Molly still doesn't understand why the hound is so fascinated by him. 

“Does it have a name?” 

“She,” He corrects because they aren't merely dogs, they have a sentience to them, he can tell that much by their watchful eyes, “And her name is Armagh. There's another one, but I haven't the faintest idea where she's gotten off to.” 

Gustav had told him their names when he asked, but little else about them. Molly isn't even sure if they were owned by the person who inhabited this body before him or not and no one has ever been very giving about any information regarding where they came from since he first met them. 

He just assumes they've always been here. 

“Armagh,” The hound perks up at the use of her name when Caleb says it and Molly can't help but be a bit jealous, because she never listens to him so raptly. 

Caleb's eyes trail up to one of the trees, face pinched at the sight of the fruits.

He knows what the other is thinking.

Molly hasn't missed the rumors the mortals would tell or even the other gods for that matter. 

That if you eat anything down here you'll be trapped here forever. 

“Don't worry. They don't actually force you to stay down here if you eat them. They just taste like shit.” 

He's not even sure who started that rumor. 

Gustav had quickly told him that it was all false when he had asked about it, having heard it from one of the others, and the fiend had been visibly annoyed. Not at him, but with whomever had started the myth apparently. 

“Well that's good at least... Don't think I would try one anytime soon anyways,” Caleb's quiet, subdued, his voice losing all of that warmth it had before. 

Molly frowns, because sometimes it's hard to read the other god. He can tell there's a lot going on in that head of his, that he seems to get a bit lost in it and distracted and Molly admittedly misses that warmth he saw reflected back at him when they had been surrounded by a sparkling prism of wings and light in the forest. 

But now they're here. 

Surrounded by everything dead and forever dying and Molly isn't even sure how Caleb managed to achieve that anyways. 

“What the hell did you say to convince her to let you visit?” 

Caleb startles, glances over at him and away again, “I just told her how I felt…” 

“And how'd she take it?”

“Well… I think...” The other god starts, tangling his fingers in the hound's fur, ”I think she feels guilty.” 

Well Molly hadn't wanted her to feel guilty. He had just been frustrated and he had wanted her to see what was right in front of her. 

“She was just doing what she thought was best. Even if it wasn't good for you,” Molly reassures, idly resting his arm on the hilt of the scimitar at his hip. 

He doesn't miss the way Caleb flinches at the sight of the blade, the way he watches it draw in whatever veil of life happens to get too close to it. 

Molly can't help but feel a bit bad about that.

“I know she was,” Caleb admits. 

“Still hurts though, huh?”

“I never realized how much I was trapping myself there until she said I could leave.” 

Molly wraps his fingers around the small coin sized mirror hanging on his neck. 

“Yeah…,” he sighs and he wishes it was that easy to get the constant vigilance off of his is back as well. 

He knows it's necessary. 

He knows there's a reason for it and that that constant watchful eye on him has gotten him out of trouble before. 

It still doesn't mean he has to like it all of the time though. 

“Well, now that you're here… you want a complete tour of the shittiest place in the material planes?” He smiles, trying to bring it all back to that more lively feeling from before. 

Caleb chuckles, “Sure.”

“One sec, lemme make a shortcut since I'm pretty sure you don't want to walk the endless fields of torment for a thousand years.”

He can see Caleb raise a brow likes he's trying to figure out if Molly is joking or not. 

He isn't. 

Maybe he's exaggerating a _tiny_ bit, but he would rather not walk through the more harrowing parts of this place when he can get them to the more interesting parts quicker. 

He pulls the blade and the slide of it from the hilt rings in the quiet. The absence of light around the obsidian is even more apparent now and he doesn't miss the way Caleb takes a step back from it or the way the hound stares at it, the feathers along her scruff and spine falling flat.

He quickly opens up a tear and it's easier here, where the energies all connect. It's much harder to open one up above where there's interference. Down here it's almost familiar though, like second nature to reach for those points in space and pinch them together. 

He sheathes the scimitar and gestures to the writhing gateway of shadows with a smile. 

“After you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly is deffo not the slow burn portion of this story. He is already far gone on this boy. Caleb on the other hand, he's gonna take awhile.
> 
> Prepare for some adventures in the underworld next chapter~ You get to meet what I've done with the circus peeps~~ And it'll definitley be a longer chapter because absolute shenanigans. 
> 
> Also I dont know if the point of view changes are annoying or not. They are two very different people and it's interesting for me personally to play out both. It's all very self indulgent type writing honestly and I get explore two different character dynamics in one setting I've created.
> 
> And you know I actually rolled last chapter to see if Molly could tell Caleb was being a bit deceptive/not fully being sincere and that boy rolled shit. He's a hopeless, distracted by shiny and pretty things, disaster in both chance and this story apparently.
> 
> The two hellhounds- 
> 
> Armagh and Bodv
> 
> -Imagine a borzoi and sloughi had a baby and that baby had pointy elongated ears and big teeth and a dark indigo nose. That's the two hellhounds. One has blue eyes, the other has red eyes. And their fur is longer around the throat and scruff and down the spine, covered by sprouts of black raven feathers and short and white everywhere else. Their paws leave behind small glowing patches of dark, indigo almost black fire when they are excited or on the hunt. and they are loveable assholes who have a purpose for being in this story later on, I swear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up. That dysphoria tag shows up in this chapter a bit. Namely some body dysphoria. Also this chapter derailed a bit from the original idea so only some circus peeps in this chapter. more later.

They end up on the main path, closer to the front gate and the check-in center than the absolute shit show further down the cobbled path.

Molly knows most people expect this place to be fork-tongued devils, pitchforks, and brimstone, but that would just be disorderly and chaotic. 

There's buildings and structures and the occasional office because even they have to keep ledgers and paper work of the souls they admit, because bureaucracy is a bitch and the old ways stopped being viable when the populations up top swelled. 

The finer points of sorting the souls became more complicated as their philosophies became more complicated as well. 

Nowadays a murderer can find a home in Elysium while a devout clergyman can find torment in the Plains. It's not as black and white as it used to be and the greys make it complicated and tricky when it comes to deciding where someone should go. 

It also unfortunately makes filing things a necessity. 

“It's very different from what I imagined it being,” Caleb remarks, looking at the buildings and the milling people. All different but all noticeably not something you would find up top. 

“It's changed a lot apparently, even since I woke up,” Molly admits, crossing his arms. 

“It's all very… normal.” 

Molly laughs, “That's one word for it I suppose.” 

They continue on that path for a bit, any lingering eyes avoiding them, Armagh standing close to Caleb and if someone drifts too close the hellhound whips her attention their way, lips lifting until the person backs off. And Molly doesn't miss the way everything down here gravitates towards the other god, almost subconsciously, and even he isn't immune to that alluring light. 

“That's the road to Elysium,” He says casually, pointing down a road paved in gold that snakes off from the main one, “and if we continue down this one it it'll take us to the front gate and back,” he points with his thumb back over his shoulder, “that way leads to the less than savory parts of this place.”

He doesn't mention the path to Tartarus or the seals keeping the god down there. 

No one talks about that. 

Beau had to be the one to tell him because Gustav and the others just told him to avoid it at all costs. 

And speaking of Gustav he knows the fiend is in his office probably. Sorting through stacks of paperwork that Molly should definitely be helping him with. 

There's a particular building he's heading for, one that's a bit taller than the rest, a bit more put together, one where the elite members of those people who call this place home work. A building he spent a lot of his first few decades in, learning the ropes of what was what down here. 

It's nestled close to the front gate, but not at it and it's almost eerier when there isn't the distant confused murmuring of lost souls and just silence in the air here. 

He pushes open the doors, Caleb following behind him and the god is practically giving himself whiplash with how much he twists his head around to look at everything around him. Every new sound, every new color, draws his gaze and it's fascinating to watch. 

It's quiet in the front entrance and he wonders if the others have gone out to inspect what the silence at the front gate is about. 

Ornna is still there though, rummaging around in one of the drawers, huffing and harried and glancing down the hall occasionally before continuing her search. Her short crop of hair is flaring brightly, the flames flickering in time with her agitation. 

“Gustav in?” Molly asks, leaning against one of the shelves. 

Ornna eyes him, the oranges flaring against a frame of dark skin. 

“He's bloody getting his head chewed off right now, but he's in,” she remarks snidely. 

She crosses her arms, inspects him and then Caleb and then Armagh who's sat on her haunches, waiting. 

“Speaking of, Molly, where have you been, we need to--” 

“Not now, Orna,” He cuts her off, brushing by her and there's a flare of heat from the snapping fire of her hair. 

There's voices drifting down it and they are anything but amicable. 

“Look, for the third time, I'm sure she'll be back soon. He always brings her back doesn't he?” 

“It's been two days now!” 

“You have to have some way to track him down!”

“Not if he's gone somewhere without solid ground we don't.” 

“Have you checked the swamp, yet then?!”

“Please, stop shouting, I'm right here, there's no need for any of that, _please._ ”

He makes it to the door and raps his knuckles on the frame as he leans in, the wooden barrier already swung wide open.

“Having some trouble, Gustav?”

The man behind the desk scrambles up, his finely tailored and twin tailed coat of red and white stripes as pristine as usual. The fiend smiles nervously, fangs peeking from behind his lips and Molly knows he isn't nervous because of him. It's the two angry dwarven spirits bearing down on him that has Gustav sweating. The two dots of flames, like small horns just at his hairline, flicker an uneasy yellow and then blue. The usual liquid confidence in his black eyes is gone and replaced with unease. 

“Oh, Molly, glad you could make it and with one of the hounds, _fantastic,_ this makes things much simpler,” Gustav gesticulates animatedly, voice that ever confident announcer once again, bereft of the surmounting frustration he caught the tail end of. 

The two dwarfs whirl on him now that there's someone else to plead with. 

“Find our little girl.” 

“Please.” 

He knows who they are. He's met them before. Toya is their daughter and the little spirit was always amicable towards all of them, but especially Kylre. 

And he knows they lost her once.

Ripped away from her too soon and she was left to a cruel world that didn't even give her a chance. But death is unbiased in that way. It doesn't care for your circumstance. It just takes. 

“What's the situation?” He asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jamb. 

“We don't know exactly, but Kylre’s been acting weird for a bit now and a few days ago he just took our Toya and didn't bring her back,” the father explains, arms crossed and eyes hard. 

“We thought they were just going on one of their adventures, childish naive things the both of them can be, but she hasn't come back,” Toya's mother says nervously, wringing her hands and looking up at him like he might have all the answers. 

“I think he might be getting ‘sick’,” Gustav pointedly eyes him at that. 

He knows what the other means. 

Fiends aren't immune to total corruption and even if Kylre is one of the gentler souls working down here he's also one of the easiest swayed. If he's started falling there's not much they can do besides kill him. They can't have him doing whatever he wants and there's no cure and no way back from that once it starts. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, arms akimbo, “Any leads on where he might have gone?" 

“The swamp,” Gustav supplies with a grimace.

Great. 

The Eternal Swamp. His favorite. He'd rather walk barefoot through the Burning Plains than deal with that cesspool. 

“Swamp?” Caleb interjects, confused, but he's quickly drowned out by the frantic spirits. 

“Please, go find her,” the mother pleads again. 

“Please,” the father says, quieter than his partner, but he can tell the spirit is desperate. 

Gustav pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Are you doing anything important right now, Molly?” 

“I mean I'm giving a tour to--” 

“So, no,” Gustav cuts him off, “Then if you'd be so kind as to take a moment to collect young Toya?” 

“I mean I'm kind of in the middle of--” 

“Molly, _please_.” 

And Gustav sounds as desperate as the spirits and Toya's parents are watching him with wide watery eyes and he's not a complete asshole. 

“Fine.” 

“Thank you,” Toya's mother says, gripping his hand between her ethereal ones. 

His non existent heartbeat probably would have stuttered at that because he's never heard someone say thank you to him so reverently. Like he's saved them. It's a strange feeling. 

He's not sure if he likes it. 

 

\--------------------------------------//-------------------------------

 

The swamps are harder to navigate than he thought they would be. 

Molly tells him they have to slog it on foot the old fashioned way and keep an eye out for any sign of them. That they're probably in the inner parts, where the ground is more solid, but he can't transport them there without knowing the exact terrain and location. 

And there's no visible trail for them to track and where Molly’s boots weren't exactly made for traversing a bog, thankfully Caleb finds little resistance. Even in this tar like swamp he manages to find the best footing and the slithering creatures almost respectfully avoid him. He's not sure if it's the hellhound nearly pressed to his side, but he's grateful nonetheless. 

“This is absolute nonsense. Why couldn't Gustav and them do this?” Molly grumbles, nearly losing his boot to the muck once more. 

“You could take them off, it’s easier to get through here barefoot.” 

Molly curls his lips at the thought and Caleb can't help but laugh. 

“Not all of us are mud hippies of the forest.” 

“We'll this ‘mud hippie’ is doing just fine without wearing shoes, _danke_ ,” he retorts, hiding the small smile tugging at the corner of his lip, “Not all of us can be as prissy as you. The realms would be in absolute disaster if we were.”

“Hey! I resent tha--” Molly’s boot gets caught and there's a terrible sucking and slopping sound as he tries to pull it free and he nearly falls face first into the mud

Caleb manages to just catch him, the hellhound gripping the back of Molly’s coat and helping to keep him up. He's managed to somehow accidentally catch him right along the upper torso and his wrist brushes those dark bindings that cover Molly's chest and conceal his sternum. The tip of his thumb just barely touches the beginnings of those snaking scars that peek out from under it and snake up his neck. 

The god quickly recoils, righting himself and brushing Caleb's hands off and it's the most uncomfortable he's seen Molly look since he met him. 

There's a pause where Caleb isn't sure what to say and the hellhound glances between them, her ears pinned back.

“Er, thanks,” Molly rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding Caleb's eyes, “Almost ruined my coat there.” 

“No problem. Can't have the King of the Underworld looking all muddy after all.” 

Molly seems to latch onto the teasing, bouncing back to his usual exuberance eagerly, the uncomfortable pause forgotten in its wake.

“Of course! They might mistake me for one of you forest gods if I come back covered in bog water and muck.” 

“Oh the _absolute_ horror,” Caleb deadpans. 

“It _would_ be dreadfully horrible, yes, thank you” Molly nods, grinning, “Now, let's hurry so I can get the hell out of this swamp.” 

It's another hour of grueling and arduous trawling through the sprawling terrain of shifting black bog water before they find semi-stable ground. 

Molly hoists himself up onto the tangled floor of roots and spongy ground that is blissfully dry and muck free. The god collapses on his back, laughing and huffing out a long breath of air. 

“I'm never doing that _ever_ again. We are fast traveling out of here once we find them.” 

“Agreed.” 

Armagh yips her own agreement and Caleb assumes she doesn't want to slog through that again either. 

Caleb pulls himself up onto land as well and the second he does he hears a snap further into the new terrain they have been met with. His gaze shoots to the tree line, scanning it nervously. 

It's all towering trees, blackened and jaundiced and deep green, akin to looming cypresses but far more sinister. Vines hang from them and there's moss that almost seems to writhe along the trunks. Strange spindly creatures skitter across the bark, beady wet eyes covering the carapaces, all blinking noisily in the hum of the bog. 

A sudden raucous caw has Caleb startling and a raven swoops by from out of the darkness, pecking at the hellhound as it goes and she seems to almost playfully snap her jaws back at it. Soon enough it's out of sight, but Caleb hadn't missed the red eyes it had. Molly doesn't seem to have noticed it, the god busy inspecting something pressed into the mossy forest floor. 

Caleb approaches, dismissing the raven seeing as how they have much more important things at hand, cocking his head at the large footprint smashed into the ground. 

“Kylre came through here,” Molly trails his fingers along the impression. 

“Do you think Toya is with him?”

“Hard to tell. Spirits don't exactly leave footprints, but it's the best lead we've got.” 

“Armagh?” Caleb asks, turning to the hellhound. 

She eagerly perks up, trotting forward and nosing at his outstretched palm. 

“Would you mind tracking someone for us, please?”

Now that they're on solid ground the endeavor to follow a scent trail should be far easier. Armagh huffs and it must be an agreement because she's sniffing at the track. 

“Well I'll be damned. She listened to you,” Molly remarks, hands on his hips. 

“Does she not listen to you?” 

“Ha,” Molly barks, “ _Nope_.” 

Caleb just shrugs helplessly. 

He's not sure why she listens to him, he just asked nicely and she seemed all too eager to help. 

She barks, ears perked forward and foreleg curled to her chest, pointing with her whole body before tearing off. 

“Shit!” Molly shouts, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards where the hellhound disappeared into the forest. 

Caleb isn't even sure if the god did it consciously, but there's this feedback loop sparking in the back of his head the longer his hand is caught in Molly’s. Originating from the strange sensation skittering between each millimeter of contact and it's all very, _very_ distracting, whatever it is. 

He brushes Molly's hand off, stumbling on a root and catching himself. The other god doesn't seem to take too much offense to him relinquishing the grip and continues after the hound, nimbly traversing the root systems and honestly, Caleb is almost impressed. The god had seemed a lost cause before, but here the other barely falters. 

They break into a clearing eventually, Armagh is snarling at something, her lips pulled back and eyes locked onto a shadowy figure clinging onto the upper boughs of one of the looming trees. 

Caleb squints up at it, but it's hard to make out anything up there except a small spherical glow of green. 

“Kylre!” Molly shouts up at it, hands cupped around his mouth, “Is that you?!” 

There's no reply.

“We've been looking everywhere for you, you absolute bastard,” Molly says it good naturedly despite the insult. 

“You gotta bring Toya back,” he continues when no one answers, “She can't survive out here. She'll start to fade soon and I know you don't want that, big guy.” 

There's still no answer and Caleb glances at Molly worriedly but the other is still squinting up at that shadowy figure, brow scrunched and worried. 

“So just bring her back and we'll let this incident go and you can still visit her,” Molly finishes and his voice is softer than anything Caleb has heard so far, the confidence and pomp replaced with a strange empathy. 

No one speaks for some time and Caleb thinks maybe that speck of light is just some small bug or other creature that might live out here. He thinks that until it disappears and reappears, like something blinked.

“He said he could bring her back,” the voice is deep and rumbling, carrying all the way down to them easily. 

“What?” Molly calls back, just as confused as Caleb is probably. 

“Said if brought her to him, he bring her back to life and she live again.” 

“Who said that?” 

“ _He_ did.”

“Look I don't know who he is, but whoever they are they were lying to you. You can't bring back the dead,” Molly says, voice firm.

“But he's done it before.”

“Kylre, whoever told you that was _lying_ , now bring her back to Elysium or else she won't even be a spirit anymore.”

“She deserves life,” Kylre rumbles and there's something desperate to it.

“I know, big guy, but I can't turn back time. She's dead and she'll always be dead, but you can at least be friends with her here. Isn't that enough?” 

“No. She deserves life.”

Molly huffs, frustrated and Caleb squints up at the devil toad. He can't see any hint of that foggy, faint luminance spirits seem to give off up there with the shadowy shape. 

“Gustav said he might be sick. If you can get him down to me I can try and heal him. See if that helps,” Caleb offers quietly, maintaining a visual on Kylre best he can as he says it. 

“I can try, but he's always been very stubborn,” Molly mutters back and there's something unconvinced about his voice.

“Please?” 

Caleb can see Molly stiffen out of the corner of his eye as he breathes out the quiet plea. He knows he shouldn't manipulate the god like this, but he wants to help Kylre if he can and if he has to lay it on a bit thick then so be it. 

“Hey, Kylre! You know what, I _totally_ forgot, but I _can_ actually bring people back to life. So, if you bring Toya down here I can most definitely help her out.” 

“Really?” Caleb hisses, because honestly that was the worst lie he's ever heard. 

“I'm trying my best here,” Molly shoots back, murmuring out of the side of his mouth and keeping his eyes on the devil toad. 

“You. Liar,” Kylre booms, the bassy rumble reverberating beneath Caleb's sternum. 

Molly claps his hands together and sighs.

“Okay, well, you know what, I tried being the nice guy, but he won't listen so--” The god goes to grab the hilt of the scimitar and a bunch of things happen simultaneously. 

Toya, or someone who he presumes is Toya, crawls out of an alcove in the roots of the tree Kylre is perched up in. She's a young translucent dwarf girl with braided blonde hair and large tearful eyes and she's shouting and shaking.

“Don't kill him!” 

As she yells the devil toad himself drops from the tree, slamming into the ground and the impact sends Caleb wobbling on his feet. 

Armagh lunges for the devil toad just as he lands, her jaws poised for the large creature’s throat, but he moves faster than Caleb expected, batting her aside with one meaty fist and charging Molly. 

The god barely has the scimitar halfway out of the sheath before Kylre barrels into him and they both go down. Toya is still shouting and Caleb is frozen between watching the now frantically crying spirit child and Molly pinned beneath the devil toad, the god snarling up at it in a language he doesn't even know. 

He can see Armagh getting back up and he has an idea as she tears back towards them. Caleb quickly slips the pouch of iron powder from the bag at his side, palms the fine dust in one hand and claps the other over it, aiming it towards Armagh. He draws his hands away from each other and she swells in size until she's suddenly standing an entire person taller than him. 

She doesn't even pause in her lunge, teeth bared and jaw unhinged, deep purple tongue curled back, spittle dripping from the large jowls as she snaps into the fiend pinning Molly down. There's a sickening crunch and a guttural shout from the thing caught in her jaws and she shakes it like a rag doll. Splatters of black blood tear across the ground and Caleb doesn't manage to dodge the spray, his entire front marred in dripping midnight. 

He claps his hands back together and she shrinks back to her original size, jaws still locked in tight, the fiend limp and dead in her grip. 

Molly leverages himself to his feet, dusting off his front, grimacing at the same smatters of muddy blood on him. He's staring at him and Caleb shifts back uncomfortably, dusting the remnants of the powder off on his pants. 

“Where the hell did you learn that?” Molly asks with a delighted huff of air. 

“No one important.”

The components in the bag were mostly for spells that came in handy when tending the forest.

Sometimes he had to shrink a creature that got its head stuck in a log or something menial like that, or sometimes he had to enlarge a stone to damn up an overflowing river. Just small, trivial things. Easy, because unlike most he didn't have to labor over books and spells, he just had to have some basic components to trigger them and the essence in his veins did the rest of the work for him. Even _better_ than those mortals gifted with just the smallest hints of divine blood.

He had never used it for anything like this before though. 

As for who he learned it from...

He doesn't like to think about her anymore. 

“Well either way, thank you for that. Didn't expect him to come out of nowhere at the end like that,” Molly huffs again, brushing at the blood staining his coat with a curled lip. 

“I was hoping I could heal him for Toya's sake, but he didn't seem all there,” Caleb sighs.

Molly hums, contemplating something as he eyes the corpse. 

“I need to ask Gustav if he's ever seen anything like this before,” Molly starts, bending down to peel back the closed eyelid, it's just a deadened blank color now, “There was something wrong with his eyes…”

“ _Was_?” 

“One was green.”

And Caleb remembers it. 

That single glowing, sickly and yellow-green left eye, the other an obsidian black and the whole aura around the devil toad still tasted like decay. 

“Oh, fuck,” Molly hisses suddenly. 

Caleb whirls around from where he had been inspecting Kylre's corpse. Molly glances at him, eyes pinched and concerned.

“Toya's gone.” 

Oh, fuck indeed. 

 

\-----------------------------//-----------------------

 

 

Molly really doesn't like mud. 

Maybe that was him being up tight, but he doesn't like the way it feels or the way it dries on his skin and he is infinitely grateful that Caleb had managed to stop him from face planting in it.

Caleb had also caught him along the chest and it's stupid, but a part of him is afraid the other might have felt a bit more give than what he might have expected. 

Which again, _stupid_ , because if Caleb had met Morrígan before he would know that the other used to look like so he shouldn't be surprised if Molly had a few more curves than the average god, but he also can't help being uncomfortable at the notion of the other knowing that. 

It's all very convoluted and he can't explain it in so many words to even himself, but the idea is there and there it has decided to stay. 

And now they're trying to find Toya after he got bested by Kylre and he can't help but be a little salty at that also because _really_ he should have easily gotten one over on that devil toad.

“Can Armagh track a spirit?” Caleb huffs out beside him, tripping on a jutting root as he glances over to him and Molly quickly rights the other god.

“Of course she can, she's a _hellhound_!” Molly fires back, exasperated at the question and because he knows Armagh won't listen to him if he asks. 

“Armagh?” The hound lopes ahead of them as Caleb says it, dark fire sprouting up from under her paws. 

She veers off to the left and Molly slides along the spongy ground as he tries to stop, arms pinwheeling before he rights himself and takes off after her. 

They make it to a cluster of trees, Armagh nosing around the root system before her ears fold back and she plops down on her haunches, head turning to him. 

“Did you find her?” 

She just whuffs in response. 

He'll take that as a yes then. 

“Toya?” Molly ventures, carefully making his way closer. 

“Go away!” 

Okay, so it was gonna be like this apparently.

“Toya, you need to get back to the fields.” 

“You killed him!” She shouts back, her voice echoing out from where she's hidden away.

Molly crouches, face softening because they did essentially just take away her only friend down here. 

“Look, sweetheart, I know, but we didn't have a choice.”

“You could have talked to him…,” she sniffles and he can't see her but he's sure her translucent face is crumpled and distressed. 

“We tried.” 

“You didn't try hard enough.”

There's a hand on his shoulder and Caleb steps forward. 

“Toya, Molly had no part in killing Kylre, it was just me. So please listen to him at least,” Caleb tries, voice regretful and solemn and Molly frowns at the sound of it. 

There's a long drawn out pause and only the skittering and crawl of the creatures in the swamp can be heard. 

“Who are you supposed to be anyways? I've never seen you down here before,” she mumbles and instead of that terrible sadness there's curiosity now. 

The small spirit carefully climbs her way out of where she's hidden, eyeing them cautiously, but eyes staying mostly glued to Caleb. 

“I'm no one important,” Caleb smiles and Molly doesn't really like the way he says it so convincingly. 

“Why do you glow like that then?” 

Caleb seems startled by that. 

“You're all blues and greens and golds. It's pretty,” And Toya is fully enraptured in whatever she can see now and thank the old gods for the young and distractible mind. 

“I'm…” Caleb stutters, ears turned pink and Molly can't help but think it's adorable. 

“Did you kill Kylre because his color changed?” Toya asks, avoiding their eyes. 

“What do you mean?” Molly asks in return because he didn't know Toya could even see ‘colors’ until now.

She never mentioned it before. 

“He used to be dark green and brown. But then he turned this yellow-green and then… then he acted different… but it didn't mean you had to kill him,” she stutters turning wide eyes to him. 

“I'm sorry about that, I really am. I wanted to heal him...,” Caleb laments, voice soft and Molly feels a bit bad at that. 

He's almost glad things went the way they did though, because he's not sure how Caleb would have reacted to him cutting the fiend down in front of him. There was just no way to heal something like Kylre when they started to slip. 

Toya doesn't say anything for a bit, eyeing Armagh and the stains of blood still marring her white fur.

“Do fiends go to the fields when they die?” She finally asks. 

No.

They don't.

They don't go anywhere. They just don't exist anymore, but he doesn't have the heart to tell her that. 

“No, they go somewhere else, somewhere special,” Caleb lies and Molly thinks it's a bit alarming how good he is at it. 

“Good,” Toya nods, swiping at her eyes. 

“Ready to go home now?” Molly finally asks, hands on his hips and ready for this day to be over.

Toya nods. 

Molly opens up a rift for them and they finally leave that god forsaken swamp. 

 

 

\---------

 

They step back into that clean office space, tracking mud underfoot and still coming down from an adrenaline high of chasing the two wayward souls through the swamp. 

Gustav doesn't turn around immediately but Molly watches him perk up at the sound of them entering, “How did it go?” 

The fiend twirls around from where he is inspecting a ledger when Molly doesn't answer, his sharp smile faltering at the sight of them. Eyes dancing over the splatters of blood, mud, and bog water. 

“That bad, huh?” The fiend finishes with, head tilted and the small flickering horns their usual orangey-red again. 

“Kylre’s dead, but Toya's back home at least,” Molly huffs out, collapsing into the chair and throwing one leg over the armrest as he settles into it.

“What a shame,” Gustav frowns and Molly can't tell if it's genuine or not.

“Did you know?” Molly asks, eyeing him. 

“About?” 

“That he took her because someone told him they could bring her back to life?” 

Gustav's brows raise and the horns flicker a brief spark of yellow. “That I did not.” 

“You know anyone who might have done that?” Molly asks picking at the mud caught under his fingernails. 

“Can't say I do,” Gustav says it stiltedly, like he's lying. 

“Toya said Kylre’s 'color changed.' That he turned a yellow-green color. His left eye was the same glowing color as well,” Caleb interjects and Gustav eyes him skeptically, lips pursed. 

“Interesting,” Gustav drawls, gaze darting between both of them now. 

“You know anything about that?” Molly ventures, eyes narrowing, resting a hand on the hilt of the blade at his hip. 

Gustav’s tongue swipes at his fangs nervously, the fiend adjusting his striped tailcoat and clearing his throat, horns flickering, fully a nervous yellow now. 

“I might have ideas.” 

“Mind sharing them with the class?” Molly grits out, because he's tired of being dodged around and he can tell Gustav is hiding something. 

“I--I think we should check on the seals again. Make sure the barrier is holding firm. Kylre might have gotten close enough that he talked to _him_ or whatever is  
left of him floating around there,” Gustav finally says, gaze flickering to the scimitar under Molly's hand. 

“Who?” Caleb asks, looking between Gustav and him. 

“Vecna.” 

Caleb tenses at that, eyes darting around like the deity might show up at any moment now that his name has been uttered.

“Shit,” Molly hisses because even if he doesn't remember the second calamity, he knows that name.

Everyone does. 

The god of Time who earned his title of Ruin. 

“Shit, indeed,” Gustav agrees and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I'll put the Knot Sister's on it, but _please_ go take a bath. You both reek.” 

“Roger that,” Molly mock salutes, winking at the fiend, his previous intimidation forgotten, and all but twirling out of the room because finally he can get this mud off of him. 

Gustav just sighs shakily and gets back to work. 

 

 

\-------------------

 

 

There was a glaring oversight Molly forgot about the Pantheon. 

It has one massive communal bath and that stupid, nagging, incessant part of him is coming back to let him know that while he is comfortable with full nudity around mostly _everyone_ else, somehow, right now, in this instance, Caleb is different. 

Needless to say, he's having quite the day. 

He keeps the bindings across his chest on. He doesn't like others to see the scars all that often anyways; it raises far too many questions he lacks the answers to. Grizzly and ugly as they are its best to keep them covered up anyways; all brutal and messy, tangles of black and raised like veins that spider out from his sternum and serve as a constant reminder. Nothing beats beneath them anymore, his heart as dead as the day something ran him through, and yet, he's still here. Stuck in this skin, however. And somehow, everything from the waist down, he doesn't truly care about in the same way, that's all semantics.

That still doesn't stop him from making sure he's the first to the bath. Submerged up to his sternum in the steaming water, arms folded beneath his chin and resting on the edge of the dark tile, mist drifting lazily from the water and obfuscating the surface. 

There's the soft fall of bare feet on the marble and he cracks an eye open, tilting his head to look towards the source. 

It's all pale skin and a dusting of freckles and he's caught up in it instantly. Caleb's still as dangerously thin as he looked swaddled in clothes, and he walks timidly, like he's unsure of the ground beneath him, but he doesn't seem bothered by being completely naked at least.

There's dark and pale lines, long twisting scars that break up the swathes of unblemished skin and Molly can't help the spark of anger at the sight of them.

Whoever that man was who trapped Caleb, he should be glad he didn't land in Molly’s realm. Scars on a god can only mean that whatever put them there was exceptionally and extraordinarily, painful and brutal. 

Caleb doesn't even seem to notice him staring, more caught up in the warm water he's sinking into than the eyes tracking him. 

The other god settles at the steps on the far side of the nearly pool-like structure and Molly doesn't miss the way Caleb has kept those twining coils of red on his arm. 

He guesses they both have things they still want to hide here. 

Blue eyes finally track up towards him, Caleb seeming to startle when he notices Molly leaned back against the side and watching him. 

“We don't have anything like this in the woods,“ Caleb finally says, the hint of a smile on his face and Molly feels a bit weak at the sight of it directed at him. 

“Not even hot springs?” He asks, raising a curious brow.

“There's no lava flows to heat them where we are.”

“So, what? Do you just bathe in river water?” Molly asks, head tilting, smiling playfully. 

“Pretty much...” 

“Seems unsanitary, but okay,"

“We can't exactly get sick that easily." Caleb deadpans. 

“It's the principle of the thing.” He huffs. 

Caleb just shakes his head, a chuckle slipping free, and Molly doesn't stop to think about how he's far too caught up in the sound of it.

“Speaking of getting sick… Kylre, he was not sick then? It was...?” The name of the god goes unspoken, Caleb trailing off uncomfortably.

“Unfortunately, we won't know until the Knot Sisters report back.” 

“Do you think they'll find anything?” 

“Honestly?” Molly starts, fiddling with his necklace, thumb running over the smooth pane of it. “No.” 

He continues when Caleb just eyes the water. 

“He's locked up pretty tight down there. It would take something truly catastrophic to break those seals. Could have just been some residual energy left over from the Second.” 

“Ja…” And Caleb doesn't sound convinced or reassured. 

“He won't come back, Caleb. We won't let him.”

“You do not even remember what he did." There's a bite to the other god’s words now, a frustration and anger Molly didn't expect. 

He's taken aback by it, brow furrowing because the god of spring’s hand is trembling where he's grabbed his own arm. 

“He was nothing I have ever seen before. He could snap a lesser god out of existence like they were nothing. He could bring them back and do it again. And he did, because it was fun for him..." Caleb's voice is haunted and distant, like he can still see it happening. “He killed _thousands_ , mortals and immortals alike. He gave his followers power, he made them stronger than they should have ever been. He rallied betrayers behind him with a single word. “

“Caleb?” Molly ventures, the other trembling, an angry snap of weakened fire sparking from under the god's fingers. 

“One of his people _killed_ you, Molly. Aren't you scared? Aren't you afraid of what will happen if he comes back?” 

He doesn't correct the slip up. Because he isn't Morrígan, so technically he _wasn't_ killed by anyone, but it's a harmless misstep in itself. 

At least Caleb didn't use the wrong name. 

“I'm sure Yasha and them have a plan to stop him if he does,” Molly reassures. 

“Do they?” Caleb bites back angrily, teeth bared in a grimace and the gold light bled into his eyes is simmering and angry. 

They have to. 

Molly knows they have to. They wouldn't let anything like it ever happen again. 

There's a hush between them, a quiet fear bled into the space between them, because he _is_ afraid. 

Who wouldn't be? 

If there's one thing Death can never beat it's Time. 

Time is endless. 

Its infinite, its ruinous, and it devours tirelessly. Time existed far before Death.

“I'm sorry… I-I should not have said that." Caleb seems to retreat into himself, that fire snapped out of existence. 

Caleb's arms fold around himself and Molly doesn't like the way he hunches, like he expects to be yelled at or worse for questioning the authority figures in his life. 

“No, no, it's fine. It's a fair question,” Molly quickly affirms. He doesn't like the way the other is shrinking away from him, even from across the bath like he is. 

Caleb just huffs shakily, running his fingers through his drenched locks, staring at the ripples across the water and Molly watches him ground himself. 

“I should probably get back soon..." Caleb mutters after a bit, eyes downturned.

“Nott give you a curfew?” He asks curiously, gently, because he's still caught up in how Caleb had all but cowered away from him moments before. 

“No, we just have a lot to prepare for the Equinox and she needs all the help she can get.”

The Summer Equinox. Of course. He's not sure what exactly preparing for the turn over to summer entails, but he's sure its a number of things he's never even heard about. 

He wonders if he can go up top to see it all some time. 

“Well, I won't hold you up here if you've gotta go.” He can't help the little vein of disappointment in his voice because he really does like the other's company a bit too much. 

“I can stay a bit longer,” Caleb admits, quietly and Molly can't help but be delighted by it, “I haven't had a warm bath in a very long time.” 

“Well, by all means, enjoy,” he gestures to the whole of the hall with an easy smile. 

They settle into a more comfortable silence. 

There's a good few minutes of quiet relaxation before there's the click of nails on the marble and a familiar white figure emerges from the columned entrance. Armagh perks up at the sight of Caleb, black blood still caked around her muzzle and the fur on her chest. She trots over, muzzle pulled into a dopey grin and Molly eyes her. He knows exactly what she's about to do. 

The hellhound jumps in, water splashing everywhere and he sighs, shaking his head at the sight of the dog treading water, paddling her way towards the patron of spring eagerly, because honestly, _what a suck up._

The hellhound perches on the step below Caleb, soaked from her ears to her toes, practically grinning up at him. 

He'll reluctantly admit, it's all very adorable. 

Except for when Caleb scratches behind Armagh's ear, smiling softly, and the hellhound _almost_ seems to shoot Molly a smug grin, eyes narrowed. 

He is not about to have a competition of attention with a hellhound. Nope. He is stronger than that. He will be the bigger man here--

He caves.

“So, Caleb…" And Armagh eyes him, daring him to fuck this up. “Have any pets?” 

The hellhound lets out a low whuff and it's almost a laugh.

“No,” Caleb pauses, contemplating something, “Well, I suppose I have Frumpkin. You already met him, but he follows me around, even acts like a pet sometimes. Nott made me give him a bell when he kept sneaking up on her too.” 

Molly laughs because he can just imagine the testy goddess of Summer being harried by that little fire cat. The thing had glared at him the whole time he was in that forest, almost daring him to overstep his bounds so he could burn him. 

“I'm sure he'd get along swimmingly with the two here.” 

Armagh huffs.

“He's never left the confines of the forest that I know of, but I can try and bring him with me some time,” Caleb supplies, quietly.

If that isn't confirmation that Caleb would come back than he doesn't know what is. 

There's a delighted thrum under his sternum at the notion. 

“You'd come visit lil ol’ me again?” Molly grins, fluttering his lashes through his best southern belle impression. 

Caleb huffs out a quiet laugh at the faux accent, “ _Ja_. I think I will.”

“Well, I'm flattered, truly,” Molly says, back to his original lilt, propping his elbows up on the edge behind him and leaning back, “I know this place isn't the greatest and I kind of forced you to go frog gigging with me and all of th--.” 

“Frog what?” 

“Frog gigging.” 

“ _Was_?”

“It's a term Beau uses, says the mortals use it when they hunt for frogs and shi-” He can see that blank and confused stare Caleb is giving him. “You know what doesn't matter. Just thanks...for all of that.” 

“I wish I could have done more to help him." Caleb tangles his fingers into the drenched feathers ringing Armagh's neck. 

“You did more than enough, Caleb.” 

There's no answer from the other and Molly sighs. 

“You said my name?” 

Molly will never admit it, but he might have let out the shrillest, surprised squeal at that, because _what the hell._

Beau just laughs where she's suddenly appeared, arms crossed, leaning smugly against one of the columns framing the pool. 

“You got him naked and you didn't even have to fuck him to do it? Color me impressed, I think you're learning." She leers with a grin. 

“Okay, no need to be crass.” 

“Oh, that's rich coming from you, Mister Show Up to A Council Meeting in Only a Tapestry.” 

“I was drunk!” He protests.

“Not the best excuse I've heard.” 

“That was only the one time, you can't hold that over me forever!” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Okay, fine, _twice_ , but I was only half a century old at that point, don't I get a free pass on being an idiot?” 

“Nah,” she drawls, eyeing him, “where's the fun in that?”

“Well, I'm glad you're amused.” 

“You showed up naked to a council meeting?” Caleb interjects and Molly wants to disappear under the water, but he smirks through the thread of embarrassment. 

Beau just cackles at his misfortune. 

“In my defense I had a tapestry on.” 

“ _Just_ a tapestry?” And he can see Caleb is trying to stifle his growing smirk for his sake. 

Molly groans, resting his forehead on the chilled tiles and regretting a lot of life decisions. 

“Aw, is the poor wittle god embarrassed?” Beau teases.

“Fuck off, Beau." He doesn't look up at her as he flips her off. 

She laughs and he can't help but smile despite all of it because this is why he considers her one of the closest things he has to a friend. Because she can dish it as well as she can take it. 

“Well, now that I'm here--” Beau turns to Caleb raising a brow. “--you need a ride home, spring boy?” 

“I wouldn't be opposed to it.” 

“Get your skivvies back on and I'll get you back to your mama bear then." She smirks knowingly when Caleb's brow furrows at her nickname for Nott. 

“She's not my mother.” 

“Sure,” Beau laughs, nodding, but she doesn't buy it.

She doesn't look away when Caleb finally climbs out of the bath. 

Molly knows she isn't attracted to all of the parts the other has, but the goddess has always been a curious one. Inspecting every inch of something she doesn't know so she can understand it, picking apart it's secrets to keep them for herself. She knows things about Molly that even he didn't know about himself because of that habit of hers. 

He can see how she lingers on Caleb's scars, the marred flesh standing out against the lightly flushed skin from the heated water and Molly can't help but linger on them again as well. 

She meets his eyes when Caleb retreats out of the bath hall, presumably to wherever the god has stashed his clothes and belongings. 

There's a pause between them before Molly breaks it. 

“The man who did that, you gave him hell before he died right?” 

“Let's just say he didn't have an easy death,” she grits out, nose wrinkled into a lip curled snarl. 

“Good.” 

Beau doesn't look at him for a bit, arms crossed and tapping her upper arm idly. 

“Molly,” She starts and there's something searching in her eyes, “Where does this end?”

“Hmm?” He tilts his head, confused at her sudden questioning.

“This,” She gestures between where Caleb vanished and him still mostly submerged in the water.

“I don't know yet…” he admits, trailing off. 

And he doesn't. 

He knows he's slipping into dangerous territory far too quickly and he's not sure if he wants to stop whatever he's falling headfirst into. 

Beau just sighs, watching him for a moment, eyes drifting to the strips of midnight across his chest.

“You left your bindings on.” 

“I did,” he says, eyeing her warily. 

“You know he wouldn't care right. And the scars aren't the worst any of us have seen.” 

She can't know that for certain.

“He might.” 

“He wouldn't, Molly. And if he did that's his problem.” 

That's just it. 

He wants Caleb to like him for _him_. 

He really, _really_ does. 

He doesn't know why but he just does. And he's unexplainably afraid of what he might see in the other's face if Caleb saw every aspect of him, the leftover vestiges of a god the other used to know. 

Some have not been so accepting in the past and those rejections make him unexplainably nervous now. Even if among them there were plenty of people who didn't care. 

He hates it, but sometimes, rarely, occasionally, annoyingly so-- he can't help it. 

“I just--” 

“You've never been uncomfortable with people before,” she cuts him off, frowning. 

“He's...different.”

“If this goes where it might, he'll find out eventually. Shit, he already knows probably, he's not blind.”

“And I'll wait until it comes to that.” 

Beau sighs. 

“Molly.” 

“Beau,” he shoots back, because this is his decision to make, not hers. 

There's footsteps again and Caleb renters the hall, clothes cleaned up to new and hair still drenched and a shiny copper. 

“We'll talk about this later,” Beau says pointedly before heading over to Caleb. 

“Thank you...for letting me explore down here,” Caleb waves and it's as unsure and awkward as the other god usually is and it's scarily endearing. 

“Anytime, Caleb,” Molly waves back, smirking, and he wishes he was brave enough to step out of the water and properly send him off with a hug or something, but his usual bravery is missing. 

It's an odd sensation. 

Being nervous and unsure.

He doesn't quite like it.

He's not even sure why it keeps happening.

He usually buries that little feeling somewhere where it can't find him. That odd, annoying sensation of feeling like his skin fits in all the wrong ways. 

The frustration at being unable to just change himself into what he wants to see that day and then change back when he wants to. To be free to shift at a whimsy; he would so anything for it.

And he had tried, but those markings, those red eyes he fruitlessly smothered in ink, had burnt and wept golden blood when he attempted to change his shape in any way beyond the magicks that allow him to become a raven. 

It's uniquely unfair, but he's stuck like this.

Those glaring eyes an ever watchful reminder of all the things he isn't and all of the things he is forced to be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [link ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/trashofboat) literally nothing on it but it's a way to contact me n shizz
> 
> Discord: Ara#6309
> 
>  
> 
> Early update cause I'm sick as shit and have been able to do nothing but type, or read, and lay in bed the past few days. fun times... but more content for you all I suppose<3
> 
> mild warnings: mentions of blood and the murder of a child in this. not very explicit though 
> 
> this chapter is kind of a plot builder/filler/setting up later conflict :") also have I mentioned I like creating angst. sorry not sorry. 
> 
> We'll be back to our regularly scheduled slow burn Widomauk content next chapter.

Before Beau has the chance to return and interrogate him Bosun is running into the bath hall, Bodv at his side, the hellhound’s red eyes narrowed and as pinched and critical as usual. 

She was always far more severe than Armagh ever was. 

“One of the seals is broken,” Bo huffs out quickly, slurred, his own flickering horns that mirror Gustav's are a deep, deep and _very_ frightened purple. 

Molly blanks, reeling back at the fiend's frantic words. Eyeing the green skinned man and trying to process the words he had rushed out in a single breath. 

“Gustav said you need to see him, _now_ ,” Bo continues, trying to catch his breath. 

He doesn't understand, because that's impossible. That's improbable. The amount of raw energy it would take to overload even one of those seals would be equivalent to thousands of…of...

_...souls._

Molly vaults out out of the water, throwing on his discarded clothes, hands shaking against his better judgement. 

Because he knows where the missing souls went. 

And Gustav probably does too. 

“Bo, take Armagh and search around Tartarus. We might have a traitor down here,” Molly quickly orders, pulling his coat over his shoulders and slinging the scimitar’s scabbard across his waist, buckling it with frantic fingers. 

The blue eyed hellhound had always been a better tracker than Bodv. The more surly hellhound was quicker, stronger, teeth a hair sharper and snarl a bit meaner. Bodv was meant to kill whatever Armagh found. 

“A traitor?” Bo asks, confused. 

“Yes! Now, go!” Molly says curtly without explaining because they don't have time for this. 

“Okay, okay.” 

Molly tears open a doorway with the scimitar, steps through into Gustav’s office and the fiend is frantically sorting through a stack of ledgers. 

“They're missing, Molly,” The fiend breathes, running trembling fingers through his hair, “They're missing and we didn't try hard enough to find them and now,” Gustav's eyes flick to the necklace around Molly's neck, “now, _this_ , and that can only mean one thing.”

“That someone just harvested thousands of souls without us knowing how and used their energy to do something impossible?” Molly drawls, trying to uplift some kind of mood, but it falls as flat as the way there's panic curling in his gut. 

“That it was one of us.” 

Oh. That. He knew it had to be someone down here, but he didn't think it would be one of them.

“You mean one of the troupe?” He asks brow furrowed. 

“No, no, no gods, no. I keep very close tabs on them all, even Kylre before that little fiasco,” Gustav reassures shaking his head. 

Gustav wrings his hands, horns flickering a purple and Molly's never seen the fiend truly fearful. He takes a moment to mutter to himself, eyes darting to Molly and back to the desk and to the mirrored necklace and he nods, steeling his jaw and stepping towards him, hand outstretched for something.

“What are you--?” Molly asks, taking a worried half step back. 

Gustav closes the gap between them, fingers curling around that mirrored necklace around Molly's neck, smothering out its visibility, drawing him forward and snapping with his free hand. The sound of hushed whispering fills the room and the fiend leans into every inch of his personal space. 

“It means that someone in that Council is trying to break him out,” Gustav whispers in his ear, low and barely audible beneath the interference. 

He knows what the other is doing now, he's trying to avoid that ever watchful looking glass tethered around his throat. 

“Any ideas who?” Molly breathes back, worried because he can't fathom who in the East Council would want to break Vecna out.

“Unfortunately, no, I can't go up there and try and figure it out anyways, but _you_ can.” 

“You want me to spy on them?” He hisses, low and incredulous, “You want me to _lie_ to them?”

“They can't know one of the seal’s is broken, do you know the kind of panic that would send the realms into?”

“They deserve to know.” 

“No, Molly, they can't. We have to keep this under wraps while we fix it. Do you understand?” 

No. He doesn't. Because if they tell them he knows Yasha and them can help keep it under control.

“No, I can't lie to them.” 

He can't. Both morally and literally up there. 

“Just omit the truth, please.” 

The fiend all but peels his hand off the necklace around Molly's neck, the conjured white noise fading. 

Gustav is staring at him, face drawn and distraught. Molly doesn't know what the right choice is here. He trusts Gustav with his life, but he has loyalties up there as well. 

But he trusts Gustav more… the fiend had practically raised him into the god he is now. 

“I'll try,” he breathes reluctantly. 

The fiend claps the back of his neck, draws him forward so their foreheads are touching. 

“Thank you.” 

He doesn't want to be thanked for this. 

For lying to them all. 

It means he will have to lie to Caleb too. And he doesn't want to do that. But Gustav is like a father to him, or whatever the strange demon equivalent is. The fiend has never led him wrong before and he trusts him and if he says the best way to go about this is to stay hush about it then he won't say anything until it's pried out of him.

“There's a Council meeting and you're expected to be there to discuss the missing souls,” Gustav says, backing off and rummaging through the paperwork again, “I already lodged a complaint for that and can't take it back now, but keep them off the scent. Say whatever you have to,” He looks up to him, eyes desperate, “Please, Molly.” 

“I will,” The promise tastes like ashes on his tongue. 

 

 

\---------

 

 

“Morrígan would have never let this happen.” 

Molly’s eye twitches. 

The meeting had been going on for an hour or so now and it was the usual things. Until they reached the point of order he had been dreading following Allura's report from the happenings in the West. Unfortunately Assum was here and he had things to say about what was happening in the Underworld.

“Well, for one thing, it's Molly now and _he's_ right here and I would appreciate it if you looked me in the face when you insulted me,” Molly bites out, arms crossed. 

Assum turns to face him and there's a poisonous flash of green in his eyes. 

“Finally decided to join the discussion than, _Mollymauk_.” 

“Assum,” Allura reprimands and her brow is furrowed, like she's confused by his hostility. 

Molly wishes one of them would just notice something is wrong with that god. That there's everything wrong with him, but Assum is eyeing him like he knows the lie caught up in Molly's head and it's making him distinctly uncomfortable because the god probably does. 

He hopes he won't tell them. 

“There's not much we can do up here about it,” Yasha says, voice solemn. 

He knows she doesn't like it when mortal souls go missing, that she wants them all to find some form of rest in the afterlife. 

“Do you, Gustav, and the others have it under control on your end at least?” 

Molly stiffens at the question, Assum watches him and there's the smallest hint of a smirk on the other's face. 

“We have it under control,” he manages to say. 

He's glad it wasn't a direct question because he is able to work around it, but it doesn't stop the back of his neck from flaring with shame because he's lying to them. He's lying to them and they don't even know it because why would he lie to them. He's just Molly. He's just the strange god of death covered in a rainbow of colors. He's not a liar. 

He smiles and grins his way through the rest of the meeting, avoiding Assum's eyes because the god of truth knows, he knows there's a lie caught in his head. 

 

Molly hurries out before everyone else, passing by Fjord and Jester who are talking animatedly about something, by Beau and Yasha who are still speaking with Allura, Shakäste and Calianna by the fireplace, the partially scaled goddess of hearth and home waving at him and smiling and he waves back even though he feels like the biggest piece of shit right now. 

He escapes out that front entrance into the garden and he feels like his skin is on fire. 

“I know you are hiding something from them,” A voice says from behind him, and he recognizes it.

He turns around, hand on the scimitar at his hip.

“What are you talking about?” He deflects, lip curling, eyeing Assum skeptically.

“Don't play cute with me, ins-” Assum breathes, stopping himself short, “I know when you are lying.” 

“Do you?” 

“I have my ways,” Assum smirks, waving a hand in the air dismissively.

“Even when that isn't your skin to wear?” Molly bites out because he needs to make Assum know he doesn't have one up on him here. 

That shaky persona all but fades into something else. The neutral way the other usually stands, not too dominant or hunched, the interested but not overtly demeaning look on his face, all of it bleeds into something _venomous._

A coiled smirking viper that shows its teeth in a satisfied grin at being caught. 

“I guess we both have secrets to keep don't we?” And even the voice is different, bleeding an intelligent confidence. 

“Who are you really?” Molly asks warily, watching that familiar flicker of decay. 

“That's a truth for another day,” They smile, whoever this is, whatever poisonous monster has slipped into Assum’s skin,“You keep my secret and I'll keep yours.”

They hold out a hand to him, eyes a swirling noxious color and smile sharp and nearly feral, all too knowing.

“Help me and I help you,” Assum promises, teeth almost too sharp behind their lips and something amused in their eyes, like they've made this promise with him before... but he would have remembered this if it had happened before. 

And he doesn't want to make a deal with whatever this thing is. 

But he can't let Gustav down. 

He shakes on it and he thinks maybe it's a terrible mistake when there's a burning on his wrist. It's nothing like that golden fire that Caleb had used. This is bone deep and poisonous, acidic even. 

He hisses, drawing back and Assum just smirks. Molly looks down at his wrist to see a thin black line fading away into smooth skin. 

“Break your oath and I'll know, young one,” Assum taps their own wrist, where a mirroring mark of their own fades away as well. 

“I--,” he tries to protest but he's cut off by Assum's chuckle that rumbles far deeper than it should. 

This vile thing that's deceived the whole Council just puts a finger up to it's lips and their form wavers worse than before, a blemishing of scales flickering into view and pustuled boils among them.

He stumbles back, hand going to the scimitar at his waist, but Assum just tsks “I wouldn't do that if I were you.” 

His voice is laced through with a feminine rumble that's far different from anything he's ever heard, but he almost knows it. 

“Keep your end of the bargain and who knows, maybe you'll be rewarded in the end.”

“What do you plan to do?” He asks and he hates the way his voice trembles. 

“Bring change,” Their hand settles on his shoulder and it's everything but comforting, it feels like a trap, like he's just some mouse they've pinned beneath one massive claw. 

He wishes Yasha or one of the others would find them. Stop him. Break him out of this deal he doesn't even know all of the stipulations to. 

He can't help but feel his limited age in this situation. 

“Don't worry, my child. It will be _glorious_ ,” and they say it feverishly, devoutly.

“You'll be free to wander among those mortals however much you want. You'll be able to do _whatever_ you want once we're done,” Assum croons, that reverb even more present, a hand on Molly's cheek now and he can't tear his eyes away from that swirling poison in the other's, “You'll be free.” 

Assum's fingers close around that necklace around his neck as they all but breathe the words like a prayer and Molly hopes for once that Beau has been watching, has been listening to everything, but the reflective surface is black and stained and he wonders when that happened. 

“There will be a new order. A better one,” Assum purrs and its almost a bassy growl, “Do not interfere, do not share our plans, do not tell them anything more than what they need to know.” 

His wrist burns at that and he feels all too helpless as this ruinous pact’s rules are laid out for him. 

“Forget this encounter until the time comes,” The hand cups the side of his face, fingertips just barely brushing through his hair and he shudders at the lace of magic through them. 

He blinks... and blinks again. 

There's no one in front of him and he can't remember why he thought there ever should be in the first place.

He's confused as to why he's outside of the council hall, the chirrup of birds and the distant rumble of thunder the only sounds he can hear. His wrist burns but when he looks down at it there's nothing. 

“Hey! Molly! What'd you hurry out of there for?” Beau jogs over, her smirk faltering when she sees his face, “What's wrong?” 

There's a sharp lick of pain along his wrist and he smiles, “Nothing, just want to get back, you know how stuffy and boring those meetings can be.” 

He doesn't stop to think about how that's not what he wanted to say because whatever dragged him out here is snapping away in his head and he can't hold onto it and he doesn't really want to. 

“I second that shit,” Beau claps him on the back, “You wanna go get shit faced?” 

“With you?” He smirks, playfully, confusion forgotten, “I'm sure it'll only take five drinks for you to be gone.” 

“Oh, you wanna fucking bet?” 

“I do,” he purrs, laughing. 

“Let's go then, pretty boy,” She cracks her knuckles, face determined and hard, “If I beat your ass you owe me one.”

“Fat fucking chance of that,” Molly snorts, hands on his hips, “but you're on.” 

“Deal?” 

Beau holds out a hand and there's the brief flicker of something. A hand coated in a growing sickness and rot, sickly, scaled, unnatural.

It's gone as soon as it appears. 

“Deal,” he says around a smirk, clapping his hand in hers and ignoring the uneasy skitter across his neck.

 

\------

 

It's hours before he stumbles back into the halls of the  
Pantheon. Bodv is on the back steps, eyeing him as disapprovingly as a hellhound can and he flips her off. 

“I don't need your judgement,” he slurs.

She just lifts her lip at him, muzzle wrinkled.

She trots back into the halls and the click of her nails fades away. Molly settles on those back steps, staring out at the dying garden and trying to stay upright. 

He thinks about how he lied to all of them.

About how maybe they were right to put this thing on his neck because he can't be trusted. But he trusts Gustav… the fiend had never led him astray before...

And he misses Caleb already. 

His head is all sloppy and he can't stop thinking about blue and copper and freckles dusted across pale skin. A sad smile on his lips because he isn't brave enough to be himself in front of the other when he has boundless confidence around everyone else.

The click of nails returns and Bodv is back, a tome clenched between her teeth from the library. She sets it down beside him, eyes determined. She noses it open and he watches her do her best to leaf through it. 

She pauses on one page. A twisted dragoness perched atop a shattering cliff and silhouetted against an infected sky. Four other small draconic silhouettes circle in the distant clouds behind her and Bodv taps the name at the top with her snout, eyeing him pointedly. 

‘Raishan the Deceiver’ 

“I don't need a history lesson right now, Bodv.” 

She growls, teeth closing around his wrist, gently but still a warning, dragging his fingers to hover over the image. 

He doesn't understand what she wants from him.

There's the flash of poison colored eyes and scales in his head but his caught wrist burns and it's gone. 

“Leave me alone,” he mumbles, prying his wrist out of her maw. 

She barks at him, angry, and he startles because neither of them have ever done that before. Armagh comes loping out of the gardens at the sound, her usual dog grin disappearing when she notices Bodv all but snarling at him. 

He doesn't understand what's going on and the more he looks at that page the more his head hurts and he's not sure if it's just the alcohol or something else. 

Armagh eyes Bodv and the two seem to have their own silent conversation around him. He sways where he's sitting on the steps, slumping on them and pillowing his head on his arms because the marble is cool and maybe he can just take a nap for a second… just a second...

He hears the sound of feathers and a raven cawing, but he ignores it, slipping into a drunken and troubled sleep. 

__

_“Morrígan,” The voice purrs, a bassy but feminine rumble, like it's coming from the pit of a chest five times his size._

_His limbs seem to move on their own, against his will, like he's just some backseat observer to this._

_There's a storm overhead, crackling and angry and there's the distant rumble of a conflict, the leaping of infernos on the horizon, and underneath that cover of clouds the sky is bled a sickly yellow-green that almost pulsates._

_“Is it everything you imagined it would be?”_

_“It's more,” he feels himself say but his voice is all wrong, it's wistful and hungry._

_“Good,” that voice chuckles, and what he assumed was some blackened and green tinged stone mass unfurls, a scaled snout emerging from the dark, wisps of noxious fumes curling from her nostrils, “I promised you it would be magnificent and it truly has been.”_

_“It will be... as long as you uphold the other parts of your promise as well,” his voice is hard now, bled through with a frantic desperation he doesn't remember the origin of._

_“Of course, of course. Would I ever deceive you, my Morrígan?” The dragon smiles, all sharpened teeth._

_“No,” he says and a part of him feels like she would never lie to him even though he's never met her._

_“No, I wouldn't,” she purrs, “ _I_ would never. But there are others that would. Do not trust Lor--” _

__

He wakes up, sweating and shaking on the steps. There's something wet on his neck and he reaches for it, drawing his hand away to see liquid gold. 

The eye marks are weeping.

 

 

\--------------------------------------//-----------------------------

 

 

When Caleb got back Nott immediately sent him out to check on the runes that keep the wards up. 

She said one of them might have been moved and it had made that area of the barrier weaker and that something could wander in that should never be here. He knows a method of fixing a rune stone if it was damaged, something that even Nott doesn't know how to do, and so he is stuck with this job, at the fringes of the forest. 

And it's impossible not to think about everything that happened down there with Molly. 

He's still not sure how exactly to take the god at face value. 

There's still many different unknowns when it comes to him and Caleb is reluctant to fully trust him. Keeping him at arm's length is safer, even if a part of him had been a bit distracted by the tattoos that were scrawled across the other's skin. 

Morrígan never had anything like it and Caleb had been fascinated by the colors and shapes of them, some of them almost alive, and he wishes he had been brave enough to sit closer to him in that bath, but his determination to keep a distance between him and the other had won out. 

He's afraid of what might happen if he gets too close, if he lets himself get attached to Molly. He doesn't want to get comfortable and think he can trust him, not after how Morrígan changed into something else following their first few encounters. 

And his first meeting with Morrígan had been fine, amusing even when their siblings showed up. 

He's not sure when it changed.

When they became aggressive and desperate, more frenzied and willing to spin praises for their realm that seemed strange and unlike the things that they had first told him about it. 

He's worried that might happen with Molly if he gets too close to him. 

_“Aren't you a pretty one?” A voice says, husky, almost feminine, but it dips lower than that._

_He whirls around to face whoever it is, heart skittering, fingers slipping from around the wicker basket he is carrying._

_There's a person, wrapped in swathes of midnight fabric that is nearly a gown. The sleeves a thinner diaphanous dark material, long and trailing compared to the tight black fabric around a figure that couldn't be described as strictly feminine or masculine even with the slight curves that are visible and with the neckline as low and plunging as it is._

_Their face is sharp, angular, contours harsh in places and soft in others, framed by a mane of dusky lavender that falls to their shoulders and glistens in the warm sunlight. There's the glint of silver on their horns, a simple silver locket around their neck, but the most noticeable piece is the scimitar at their hip, the gems in the raven head hilt a shining amethyst._

_“And who might you be, my dear?” They ask, leaning forward, smile sharp and sly._

_“E-Eostre,” He stutters, unsure who this is, but he has ideas._

_The necrotic shroud around them is obvious and nearly smothering, snapping at his own smaller aura and it bites at his nerves._

_“Not your title, dear, who are _you_?” they purr, stepping closer, head tilting slightly, almost scanning him over for something. _

_“C-Caleb,” he flushes when they're too close, less than a foot between them now._

_He tries to shuffle a step back, but they catch his hand and bring it up to their lips, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Caleb.”_

_Where their lips touch the back of his hand and where their fingers hold him there's an uncomfortable, smothering feedback of energy that doesn't belong in him. He's grateful when they release him, drawing his hand back to hide it against his sternum._

_“You as well,” he lies, because maybe it will get them to leave faster._

_“What are you doing out here?” They ask, still far too close for comfort._

_He fumbles with the basket in his hands and the collections of wild flower seeds caught inside it shift._

_“Laying out the blooms for the season,” he explains quietly._

_He doesn't like the way that shroud of death settles against him, but he doesn't know how to ask them to step away without being rude._

_“It must be beautiful once they sprout,” They say, backing off on their own, hand on their hip and he wonders if they finally noticed he is uncomfortable with their proximity._

_“It is,” he admits, relaxing a bit now that the aura has lessened._

_“Do you do this every season?” They ask, seemingly genuinely intrigued._

_“Yes and more.”_

_“Fascinating,” They breathe out with a smile, eyes alight with something he can't place._

_“What....what do you do?” He stutters because he's not sure how to approach this exactly and they still haven't left yet and he's confused why they're just staring at him still._

_“Oh, you don't know?” They drawl amused, “I'm one of the three down below. Morrígan's the name.”_

_The triad of the Underworld._

_Past, Present, and Future._

_All Death._

_He had heard of them but never seen them._

_Admittedly he didn't leave the woods a lot ever since he woke up. There was far too much for him to process beyond that forest still and he was new, new to whatever this position was and there were still vestiges of a life that isn't his anymore caught in his head sometimes. They fade more with each passing year, thankfully. The faces, the people, the agony of death that finally claimed him, that constant fear of mortality._

_“What does that entail?” He asks, curiosity piqued._

_“Oh, you know, dreadfully boring things.”_

_There's a raven that swoops overhead, loud and raucous, spiraling down until it touches the meadow and bursts into a figure, the sudden change has Caleb taking a confused step back._

_She is almost identical to Morrígan face-wise, but far softer around the edges. Her skin is a deep indigo and horns a bit smaller, her eyes a deep red. She wears a shorter black dress, more spritely than Morrígan’s attire. There's also a scimitar at her hip, the raven hilt's eyes a bright sapphire._

_“Are you harassing this poor god, lil’ sib?” She drawls, amused when Morrígan levels her with a hard glare._

_“I'm not bothering anyone, Macha,” Morrígan sneers, crossing their arms._

_There's another raven and then another figure, her face harsher and colder, lined with disapproval and annoyance, but red eyes alight with a cynical amusement. Her skin is a dusty russet purple, more maroon than the other two. She wears a simple assembly, dark shirt, plain pants and black boots, a scimitar at her hip that matches the others, the gems in the hilt red._

_“That's not what it looked like from up top, “_

_“Shove off, Badb.”_

_“They weren't bothering me,” Caleb interjects because he doesn't really like being talked around, even if what he's saying is a blatant lie._

_Macha turns her attention to him, eyes widening and she beams, “Oh, my he is a bright one though.”_

_“I--” Caleb flushes._

_Badb smacks her on the shoulder, eyes narrowed, “Don't be as bad as Morrígan.”_

_“I'm not!” She whines playfully, still grinning._

_“Sweet gods above and below can you two not follow me everywhere for once?”_

_“Naw,” Macha grins._

_“No,” Badb deadpans, voice stern, “that usually leads to you getting in trouble.”_

_Morrígan groans, pinching the bridge of their nose and Caleb can't help but be amused by it all despite his previous discomfort._

__

 

They had ended up parting ways amicably, the three leaving him to his work, Macha bopping him on the nose with her finger and saying he looked ‘cute as a button’ and that she looked forward to seeing him again. The other two were less forward and had grimaced in Badb's case or looked like they wanted the ground to devour them in Morrígan's. 

Caleb still isn't sure where it went so wrong after that. 

He thinks maybe it all started after Morrígan's sisters disappeared. 

Later it was speculated they had been killed by the champion of Torog. That patron of jailers and slavers that would claim Morrígan’s own life at the end of the conflict and evade the Council’s round up of the betrayers once the fighting stopped.

He thinks it only worsened when tensions started to build after their disappearance and the second calamity loomed on the horizon. 

When Morrígan kept trying to convince him to stay with them down below where it was safe, where he couldn't be killed by any of the others. Fed him pretty lies and words and hounded after him almost feverishly where before their sisters had tagged along and talked with him and it had always been pleasant and amicable. 

That Morrígan, the one with something like grief and turmoil constantly caught in their eyes, had scared him. Following him with their constant, maddened desperation for him to patch up something inside of them with a love he didn't have to offer in return.

Caleb sighs, conflicted and confused because he wants to trust Molly. A strange part of him wants to trust him, but it's hard. 

Because trusting people is dangerous.

It can lead to being hurt again and he doesn't want that. 

He walks along the end of the tree line, the far edges of the forest shimmering with that strange golden light and he can see where it abruptly ends, just beyond where the trees turn into meadows. There's a small patch, where the light is flickering and wavering. Caleb frowns at it, making his way over, looking down at the careful line of rune stones that line this section. They all seem neat and orderly, nothing out of the ordinary and embedded into the earth like they should be. 

He scans over them again and he nearly misses it. 

One of the stones is frozen over, slowly thawing, but whatever strange crystalline ice that covers it seems to have temporarily blocked it's magical aura and caused the ward to weaken. He places his hand over it, calls fire to his skin and whisks away the rest of it until the barrier snaps back into perfect working order.

He'll have to ask Nott if Caduceus has been about lately, because he's only ever seen ice like that from the winter patron. 

He's not sure why he would freeze one of the stones but the god of winter has always been a bit aloof and strange, cryptic even, and has the uncanny ability to always know what's wrong and oftentimes what to do to fix it. 

There's a whuff of air behind him, the loud huff of air from something large and most definitely predatory. Caleb's spine ignites like a live wire and he spins around to face it, all rigid and wide eyed, hand raised and low flames leaping just beneath the surface. 

He lowers it when he recognizes who it is.

Sort of. 

Bodv's nearly a mirror image of Armagh besides the eyes. 

“You're a long way from home,” he mutters, confused, guessing she probably slipped past the barrier when it was incapacitated. 

The hellhound eyes him, snout upturned like she's seen something distasteful. And he knows those red eyes, he saw them in that swamp. Beadier and smaller, surrounded by feathers that are far too similar to the ones around her neck. 

He wonders just what these hounds are capable of. 

“Is something wrong?” 

The hellhound huffs and he's not sure if that's a yes or a no. 

“Is Molly hurt?” 

She huffs again, but it's sharper, more annoyed. A more definite no. 

“Are you here because of me?” 

She barks once, sharp and shrill and it sends nerves prickling down his spine because it rattles in the air like dried bones. 

“Am I in danger?” 

Bodv doesn't say anything to that, looking from side to side, ears pinned back. 

“Is someone in the forest?” he asks uneasily, glancing about as well. 

He wishes he could just talk to her, that she could just answer him. This game of unanswered questions is frustrating and it doesn't help the skittering of nerves along the back of his neck. 

She trots off, huffing again, seemingly annoyed by his inability to understand her. 

“Wait--” 

She makes her way through the forest, not stopping to inspect anything and it's so very different from the exuberant energy Armagh had. Bodv is all stern purpose and cold intent. 

She noses her way into the shack once they reach it and Caleb follows, watching her, confused by what she's doing.  
She goes over to the bookshelf, sniffs around for a moment and then moves over to a box at the far corner, a simple chest that Caleb knows has incense and charcoal in it that he's collected for various tasks and needs. She nudges at it until the lid flips open, rummaging through and grabbing a chunk of charcoal between her teeth. 

She pads over, back in front of him and leans down so the charcoal clenched at the edge of her muzzle hits the floor boards and she starts… writing?

But it's not legible, it's nothing he can understand and Caleb tries his best, he really does. He's seen many languages in his time but he's unsure if what she's scrawled is even something readable or just dog scribbles. 

Bodv spits the charcoal out, huffing out a loud breath and inspecting her work, she glances up to him, long and curled ears pressing back when he just stares at her, confused and lost as to what she's trying to communicate to him. 

The door creaks open, “Caleb, we need to make sure we don't forget to tend to the west fields this year, we kind of neglected it last Equinox and--” 

Nott trails off, looking between him and Bodv. 

“Is that a dog?” 

Bodv bounds towards Nott, eyes narrowed and intent. The goddess squeaks because Bodv stands feet above her in height and Caleb can only watch as the hellhound latches onto her dark ensemble and pulls her towards the writing. Nott protests, batting at the hellhound but Bodv doesn't care, seemingly unaffected by her burning hands. 

She releases Nott in front of the scrawled charcoal, sitting back on her haunches and leveling her with an expectant stare. Nott grimaces at Bodv, but turns to inspect it, brow furrowing and then eyes widening. 

“Caleb?” Her voice wavers a bit.

_“Was?”_

“Why is the name Raishan written on the ground in Abyssal?”

He knows who that is.

Most everyone does. 

The poisonous god of lies, deceit, and trickery. One of Vecna’s most faithful, the Cinder King's right hand, the one who almost killed Allura when the goddess banished the Conclave to the immaterial planes. A drake not of massive size, but of wicked intellect and abilities that make her a truly formidable foe. 

“I don't’--,” 

He doesn't know and Bodv is staring at him, her eyes hard and calculating. 

“Did you see her?” He asks, afraid of the answer. 

Bodv huffs, head bowing to her chest and he thinks that's maybe a nod. 

“Where?”

Bodv points her snout at the ground, eyes flicking up to him. 

“The Underworld?” 

Bodv says nothing but it's all the confirmation he needs. 

“What would she be doing down there? She's trapped in the immaterial plane, she can't be back, that's impossible. We would have noticed,” Nott says, voice shaking and confused. 

Caleb's hands are trembling and he can't get them to stop because why is she back, what is she doing, where is she now, what does she have planned? 

_And who else could have come back with her?_

His eyes dart around the shack and his spine feels like it's been dipped in liquid fire. There's a growing unease in him that's starting to turn his limbs jittery and he doesn't know how to stop it. Something frantic is snapping around in his thoughts and the burn caught behind his sternum is suffocating. 

He stumbles back from that scrawled word, from all of those unknown things laced into it. 

“Caleb?” Nott stutters but it's hard to hear her when his head is ringing like this. 

He trips, falling backwards, eyes unseeing, pushing with his heels until he's backed into whatever corner he can find because there's too much, too much caught up in his head right now and it's hard to think. It's hard to think and see and he doesn't understand why his chest is fluttering. 

It's just a name, it's just a name, it's just a name. 

But it could mean everything. 

It could mean _he's_ back somehow. 

There's a hand on his shoulder and he flinches back from it. 

_There's the hilt of a blade clutched in his hand and there's fingers digging into his shoulder. Harsh and unyielding and someone's standing behind him._

_He knows it's Ikithon._

_“Kill it.”_

_He doesn't want to._

_It's not natural._

_He was never meant to take life, he was only supposed to give it. He trembles underneath that hand because he knows what will happen if he doesn't do what he's told._

_But he doesn't want to._

_“Caleb,” Ikithon says in his ear and he flinches from the curl of hot air against the side of his face, “Do not disobey me.”_

_The runes along his arm burn and he whimpers because he knows that feeling will only get worse._

_The child stares up at him, eyes wide and wet and he knows they mirror his own._

_He doesn't want to be part of this ritual._

__“Bitte…”_ He tries, desperate, but those fingers move to curl around his throat and his breath hitches because he's not supposed to speak. _

_“Do it.”_

_The symbols are an inferno along his arm and he doesn't remember how, but he's kneeling, blood slicking his hands, a knife falling from his limp fingers and the dead eye's of a child staring up at him._

_There's the golden weave of an essence caught at his fingertips and he wants to press it back into the mortal’s sternum and sew up that sluggish trickle of crimson. But rough fingers curl around his own dripping red ones, encompassing the tremble of them and that gold light disappears into pale skin. The beginnings of wrinkles and blemishes fading from the surface of that hand he thinks he hates._

_There's fingers in his hair, petting through the locks where he kneels, like a dog, covered in the innocent and the residual of a forbidden ritual._

_“Very good, _meine Blume_ ,” Ikithon breathes into the dark and a hand with mirrored silver runes cups Caleb's cheek, his palm warm amongst the cooling splatters of an iron-tanged sacrifice, “Very good.” _

_He can't help but lean into that gentle praise, kneeled in a pool of crimson and bathed in a baptism of blood._

__

 

He gasps, scrubbing at his hands, panicking because there's crimson and red and it's all over him and he needs to get it off.

He didn't want that blood on him, he didn't want to kill those mortals, he didn't want to feel what it was like to have their lives leave and settle across his fingertips. 

He didn't want to be their murderer. 

Someone grabs his hands, holds them, keeps them from where he's started dragging his nails across his skin and he tries to breath, he does, but it's hard. 

The sight of blood eventually fades, turns back into just those wraps along his arm and Nott is sitting in front of him, her hands cupped around his. 

“You're okay, Caleb,” She whispers softly, “You're not there.”

He sags forward, slipping his hands out of Nott’s grip and burying his face in them, hiding from her prying eyes. 

He hates when that happens, when he does that, when he forgets where he is because of something as small and stupid as a name or a thought.

He wishes he could just stop doing it.

It's been long enough and logically it shouldn't still affect him. Ikithon is dead and gone and he can't ever catch him again, but something in his head keeps telling him he's not and it's illogical and frustrating. 

He huffs out a sigh, takes a deep breath and tries to bury all of those things back where they belong, somewhere where he doesn't have to think about them. 

“I'm fine, Nott,” he smiles shakily at her and he can tell she isn't convinced. 

She frowns, but she doesn't pry. 

“I know you probably don't want to go... but we need to tell Yasha she might be back,” Nott ventures, eyeing him. 

“I'll go with you…” he mutters, because he hasn't seen that hall since the beginning and it had been empty and bereft of any sign of life. 

Because he's fine and he doesn't need to be coddled by her or anyone else. 

He's fine. 

 

 

\------------------------------//-------------------

 

 

Molly stumbles through the halls, still shaking, the marks still weeping and his head is pounding far more than just from the aftermath of too much drinking or ambrosia. 

He swipes at the mark on the junction of his neck and collarbone, but it keeps bleeding that same golden blood and it doesn't seem to be stopping this time. He doesn't know what it means and all he can remember is a voice purring a name that isn't his and a warning that doesn't make sense. 

He shoulders his way into the room he calls his own, hands shaking, covered in shining ichor and he's scared because they are still bleeding and they've never done that before. 

His head is pounding and it's hard to remember things like auburn hair and blue eyes and scarred freckled skin. He tries to cling onto that image, grasps onto it desperately because he doesn't want to forget, he doesn't want to be some emptied hollow husk again. 

He curls up on the bed, fingers fisted into his hair and tugging at the strands because it feels like his skull is splitting open and he doesn't want to disappear, he doesn't. 

There's a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, child, do not worry,” that voice purrs, that same voice from his dreams, “There is still time. Not yet.” 

It's too familiar, all of it, he feels like this has happened before, but that's impossible.

He would have remembered. 

“Enjoy your time with them,” They soothe, the hand resting over one of the bleeding marks now, “It will not last.” 

There's the lace of magic and he blinks, the pain in his head snapped away and he's left shivering in the dark, confused, wrist burning and he doesn't remember how he got from the steps to here. 

He reaches up to the wet spot on his neck and there's blood but he's not sure how it got there. 

There's the impression of a dream, but it's as jumbled and unfocused as they always are.

Just the brief flash of shapes and colors and the blurred impressions of things that might be faces or benign objects but nothing beyond that. No words or names or indicators it's anything beyond a strange dream. The eye markings always bleed after those dreams but nothing else ever comes from them so he doesn't mention them to Beau or the others. 

They're just dreams after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary of this chapter: 
> 
> -The Gang Goes to the Ocean-
> 
> me to me: Don't hurt Molly  
> also me to me: Do it.
> 
> *All featuring my shitty sense of humor. *
> 
> And team shenanigans. <3
> 
> And bad puns. 
> 
> You're welcome. 
> 
> Having no beta is both the best and the worst. Because I can unashamedly be an idiot, but there's also no one to tell me to stop. :) And this story has a lot of cursing I guess?? but also they curse in the show so you know. there's that.
> 
> And wowie look at that inconsistent chapter length and shift in writing style, classic me.

“Raishan is back?” Yasha rumbles worriedly from atop her marble throne. 

Caleb eyes her warily.

He's never spoken with her directly, barely even seen her outside of the context of a battlefield, but he remembers when Kord fell and she had taken up that blade that called storms to its whim. 

“How?” Beau asks beside her with a deep scowl. 

The goddess of justice was always a harsh one according to Nott, but he remembers a time when she wasn't. When she picked him up, carried him out of a place he had started to call home when he had lost all hope of returning to his woods. 

She had been sad then, quiet, eyes laced with a righteous judgment he would never see the result of, but he knew Ikithon was dead when that constant humming burn of the silver runes had stopped.

She has a short white toga tied top, baggy navy blue pants that disappear into leather-colored flat footed boots that split at the toe, runes carved into them that he recognises as wind and travel. A staff in her hand that is woven with ribbons of blue and a sash of that same ombre blue around her waist with jade rings that dangle from the ends of it. There's claw earrings pushed through the lobe of each ear and he's not sure what beast they are from, but it is most assuredly dead, and there's a large scar that peeks out from above the neckline of her top, a long slashing line that starts at her throat and disappears beneath fabric. 

“What exactly could she have been doing down there?” Fjord asks and Caleb turns his attention to the god of the sea.

The former champion of Uk’otoa that took the throne after the second calamity. Cutting down the god for his betrayal and his decision to side with Vecna, the many eyed serpent being locked up with the rest of the betrayers in the immaterial plane. 

The god has the outward appearance of a half-orc, yet tuskless. Scarred in places and showing signs of an existence born of battles and hardships, but his eyes are softer than what his exterior might imply. A rather large slash carves down the left side of his face, from the peak of his brow to his jaw. The eye the slightest bit clouded and he's unsure of the extent of the damage done to it. And Caleb thinks he remembers hearing that the other champions of the leviathan god had tried to kill him, one with twin rapiers that might have left just that kind of mark. 

Fjord is not an overly muscular sort, nearly svelte in places by some standards, but he stands tall, proudly, as unwavering as the ocean he commands. His breastplate a nearly ebony leather, shimmering a faint blue at the edges where the designs of waves are pressed and carved into it. Silver bracers, with similar oceanic currents on them, and a pauldron that matches the chest armor. The most noticeable thing is the sword sheathed across his back. It emanates a constant blue green glow, a dangerous curved falchion that drips sea water and almost writhes with the things that reside in that primordial sea. 

“Can't be anything good,” Someone who he's never met or heard of before drawls.

Caleb isn't sure who they could be, but they're dark skinned, weathered, a green cloak around their shoulders, wrapped from neck to toe in fabric and strips of leather and clutching a gnarled wooden stick wrapped in a thin copper wire that seems to act as their walking stick or staff. A hummingbird is perched amongst the wild tangle of white hair and the silver beads braided in it. It's not until he sees the misty, empty white eyes that he realizes who it is. 

Shakäste; bearer of fire to the mortals, the trickster and silver tongue of those old gods, tempered by tragedy and his past mistakes. A patron of the weary and the wandering now. 

Calianna is beside him and Caleb has at least talked to her before.

She was the only one here when he had entered these halls ages ago, tending to the ever burning fire place. She rarely leaves these halls, but does on occasion, at least according to what she had rambled to him. The partially black scaled goddess waves at him when he catches her eye, her hand held low and smile bright. He can’t help the small smile back and she beams despite the circumstances.

“Beau, can you grab Molly real quick?” Yasha kneads the bridge of her nose and Caleb thinks she looks every definition of the word ‘tired’. 

“Yup,” Beau says, popping the ‘p’ and clicking her heels, disappearing in a puff of smoke. 

She's back in a moment, a familiar god of death with her.

“I said I didn't want t--!” The god wrenches out of her grasp but stops mid snarl when he sees where he is. 

“Molly…” 

The god seems to pale at Yasha’s solemn expression, his hand hovering towards his scimitar and eyes darting to the rest of them, settling on him, and there's something tense there. 

Caleb doesn't like whatever is putting that crease between his brows and he wants it to stop. 

“What's this about?” Molly asks slowly, unsure, turning back to Yasha, shoulders rigid.

“Raishan is back.” 

That tension bleeds away, but and uneasiness stil lingers and Caleb isn't sure what that's about. 

“And?” 

“ _And_ she's been gallivanting around your realm apparently.” 

“She what?” Molly pales again. 

“One of your hounds managed to tell Nott and Caleb that she saw her down below,” Yasha explains.

“But that's imp--” 

“Apparently not,” Beau interjects, arms crossed. 

“But what is she doing down there?” Jester asks and Caleb can't help but lingering on her because she is very, very _bright_. 

She's barefoot, blue skinned, and bubbly in every way as she sways on her feet, leaning against the empty throne he thinks she's meant to sit in. There's a simple silver circlet in her hair and she's in a dress with long and rather large sleeves and all of it radiates a light and energy that's hard to look away from. 

“Does it have anything to do with the missing souls?” Fjord adds.

“Maybe,” Shakäste rubs his jaw, contemplative despite the emptiness of his eyes.

“What could she be using them for?” Yasha leans forward, one hand resting idly on the hilt of the Storm Warden's blade. 

Molly's eyes flick to it and there's that nervous tension again and Caleb isn't sure why no one else can see it. He has a feeling Nott can, the goddess is silent beside him, eyes squinted at the god, but she says nothing.

“Anything really. Allura damaged her pretty heavily from what I understand… She could just be trying to regain power," Molly says, arms crossed. 

“Makes sense,” Fjord agrees, with a shrug and a frown.

“We need to stop her then. She is not someone we can let regain her full abilities,” Yasha warns, leaning back in the throne. 

“Agreed,” Shakäste nods. 

“You and Gustav keep looking for the souls, find them and find Raishan. I can send help down if you need it,” Yasha offers, gesturing to the others gathered here. 

“Ah, no, no, we already have plenty of people running around down there, too many and it's just a mess,” Molly quickly shuts it down and Caleb watches his tail lash and he wonders what has him so agitated about all of this.

“Very well,” Yasha sighs, looking away for a moment and then back to the god at the center of all of this, “And thank you, Molly.”

“Huh?” Molly seems to startles, taken aback by her words if his half step back is anything to go by, “What for?” 

“For getting more involved in things, for taking an interest in your realm. I know you never asked for this position, but you've taken to it as amicably as someone in your predicament can.”

“Just trying to do my part,” Molly smiles and Caleb thinks it's a bit weaker than he remembers it being when it was aimed at him in the forest or down below. 

Yasha just nods, a small reassuring smile on her face, tapping the end of the great sword against the marble, “Now that that's in order, I will see you all at the Equino--. “ 

“Actually…,” Fjord interrupts her dismissal, rubbing at the back of his neck and avoiding all of their eyes.

“Yes?” Yasha tilts her head, much like some of the animals Caleb has encountered in the woods, curious and waiting.

“I might need help with something.” 

“What?” 

“There's been a bit of unrest in the sea. Some of the selkies told me there was something in the Silt Palace.”

“That place has been abandoned for thousands of years,” Yasha says, eyes widening.

“Exactly,” Fjord says, resting his hand on the hilt of the falchion,“I'm not sure what it could be, or what's down there, but I was wondering if anyone wanted to check it out with me,” He smiles, glancing at Beau, “For old times sake.” 

“Aw, hell _yes_! Good ol’ fashioned hunting party! Just like old times,” Beau smacks Yasha on the shoulder, laughing. 

“All of us?” Yasha asks, skeptical but there's something wistful in her voice. 

“Anyone that wants to go.” Fjord gestures to the room as a whole. 

“I'll go with you, Fjord!” Jester hops forward hands clasped behind her back.

“I'll stay here with Calianna, hold down the fort, make sure no one comes in here that shouldn't,” Shakäste offers, turning a vacant gaze to the goddess of the storm, “You go Yasha, I know you've been stuck here a lot lately.” 

“Thank you.”

She rises, waves her hand over her sternum and armor appears, crackling and as angry as the blade she carries. It's semi- plated and leather, _dark_ , tendrils of energy snapping across the surface and down to curl around her fist clenched around the Storm Warden’s hilt.

It's intimidating and striking and he notices Beau gawk at her, the goddess near slack-jawed at the sight.

“Anyone else?” Fjord looks to him and Nott. 

Caleb wasn't sure if the invitation was meant for them, but apparently it is. 

“ _Fuck no_ ,” Nott snarls, “Keep your water away from me.” 

Fjord waggles his fingers, “ I can keep it away from you _and_ you can still go.” 

“Doesn't stop it from being there,” Nott sniffs, lip curling distastefully, “I don't like the look of it.”

Fjord shrugs and turns to him, “What about you, Caleb? We might need someone to heal us up.” 

He didn't expect to be addressed and the god's voice is rumbling and accented with a twang, far kinder than he expected the ocean to sound with how Nott talked about water and the sea.

He frowns because he knows these people only know him as the life-giver, but that doesn't make him some glorified healer for them to tote around. 

“Sure... I do have some ways to fight too,” He levels the god with an unimpressed glare. 

He won't be sidelined as just their ‘pick me up’ here. He already has plans in the works for the other spells he knows afterall. 

Fjord seems to brush off his clipped response, sending him a smile that any other person would call charming and Nott squawks indignantly beside him, Beau laughing at her misfortune. 

“Guess you gotta dip your toes in now if your boy’s going,” She grins slyly at the goddess. 

Nott grumbles, crossing her arms. 

“Don't worry, I won't let the big bad water catch you,” Fjord chuckles.

“You fucking better not.” 

Fjord just laughs even more and Caleb can see the anger in Nott is hiding that nervous tension, her fingers trembling where she's tried to hide them. She doesn't have to go. He knows she hates water, that everything about it terrifies her. But he knows she won't back down if he's going either. 

“Molly?” Fjord addresses him but Caleb can see something is distracting the god of death. 

Busy scanning over the marbled floor below his boots like it'll have all the answers he's looking for. Molly seems to startle back to himself, a delayed response that has Caleb the slightest bit worried but the god quickly relaxes into an easy smile. 

“Oh, right, yeah, sure, let's go gank some tentacle porn monsters,” Molly grins even wider at the way Beau recoils at his words. 

“Ugh, it better _not_ be anything with tentacles, Fjord.”

“Hey, you already agreed so no take backs.” 

“Let's just fucking go,” Beau grumbles, rolling her eyes and holding out her hand.

Jester slaps her hand into it, grinning eagerly and holding out her free one to the next person. Yasha takes it gently and it follows like that until he's standing at the end of a chain, Molly cocking his head with a smirk, hand outstretched and waiting for him.

He slips his hand into the other’s and the world disappears. 

 

 

\----------------------------///------------------------

 

 

Molly had never been more afraid in his life than when Yasha had stared him down from atop that marble throne. 

He thought it had been about a _particular_ situation down below and it had been a real mental effort to stop the relieved sigh that wanted to slip from him when the conversation went somewhere else. 

She said Raishan was back and that the hounds had told Caleb and Nott… somehow. And he can't help the deep frown at that because what is she doing down there? There was a broken seal and still eight more to hold _him_ down there, but if she managed to break one, assuming it was her that did it in the first place, then what's stopping her from finding ways to break the others?

He'll just have to have faith in Gustav and the others to handle it, because for now he's agreed to help Fjord with his odd predicament and honestly whatever keeps them distracted and their attention firmly off of the Underworld the better.

What he hadn't expected to see when Beau forcibly pulled him back to the Sanctuary was Caleb though. And despite his initial fright there was a small thrill at the sight of him, a thrumming in his gut that was equal parts dangerous as it was welcomed. 

He was far too gone on this god who didn't even look at him the same way. On this man whom he had promised Vecna wouldn't return.. and now he had to lie to him about being one seal closer to ruin. 

It's difficult to keep ruminating on that when he's holding a hand that thrums with so much life that it's _intoxicating_. He doesn't even notice he's been clinging onto Caleb's fingers for far too long until Beau clears her throat and Molly blinks looking around to see that they've made it to their destination. 

He drops Caleb's hand reflexively, even if a part of him doesn't want to lose that tingling curl of the other's aura against his own. 

“Welcome to the Lucidian Ocean,” Fjord gestures to the horizon line. 

“It's very… _blue,_ ” Caleb breathes out and there's something fascinating dancing in his eyes and Molly can't help but be enraptured by that small glimmer. 

“Yeah, most oceans generally are.” Beau deadpans in return and Molly smacks her on the shoulder.

“Hey!” She barks, going to hit him back, but he twists out of the way.

“Don't be an ass.”

“I'm not,” she crosses her arms, eyeing him.

“Children, simmer down,” Fjord reprimands, hands on his hips. 

“You want us to call you _Daddy_ or somethin’?” Molly purrs back, because the man honestly gives him the perfect opportunity with how much he tries to father them.

“Aw, fuck, ew, now that image is stuck in my head forever, thanks” Beau scowls, nose wrinkled in disgust. 

He turns to her, lips pulling into a wicked grin, “You're telling me you _don't_ have some kind of authority kink?” 

“Ha, no,” Beau deflects, arms crossed and eyes darting away from him.

“ _Really?_ ” Molly asks, brow raised and eyes flicking to where Yasha is staring out at the horizon line, distracted and hearing none of this.

“No,” she grumbles, face coloring and Molly smirks, diving head first into that avenue, clapping his hands under his chin and fluttering his eyelashes.

“ ‘Oh, why yes, Miss Yasha, I _have_ been a naughty gir--’ “

He gets a faceful of sand for his mockery. 

“Shut the fuck up, you rainbow dick,” she snarls, scooping up another handful from the dunes.

“Rainbow _dick_?” He splutters, dusting the granules off the front of his coat, “Interesting choice of words for someone who prefers--” 

“ _Okay_!” Fjord swipes the readied palmful of sand out of Beau's hand, “I've heard enough. Stop squabbling you two.” 

“Yeah, listen to _Dad_ , Beau,” Molly jibes with a grin.

Beau snorts at that. 

“I fucking regret this already…” Fjord laments, running a hand over his face and sighing. 

“Don't regret it Fjord!” Jester slings her arm over the god's shoulders, “Cause we're all gonna have, like, _so_ much fun on this ‘Fjord expedition’ with you!” 

“Oh, oh, does that make him a ‘Fjord explorer’ then?” Molly adds on, grin sharp.

Fjord face palms, “Please fucking kill me.” 

“I don't get it,” Yasha whispers, brow furrowed.

“Me neither,” Caleb adds beside her, eyeing them skeptically. 

Molly just cackles even more at their confusion. 

It's not even funny, it's just a stupid inside joke, but it doesn't stop him from nearly falling into Beau, his ribs heaving. 

“Hey, assholes, are we gonna kill some fucking monsters or not?” Nott barks, her voice cracking, glowering up at all of them and flames licking at her fingers.

“That means you'll have to get _in_ the water,” he eyes her, brow raised and skeptical as all hell that she'll get near the stuff. 

“I fucking know, don't remind me.” 

“Mm, _testy_.” Molly hums playfully.

“You'll see how testy I am when I have my foot up your as--” 

“Nott,” Yasha places a hand on the Goddess’ shoulder, halting her stomping march towards him, a patient tilt to her lips, “You don't have to come with us. We'll keep him safe.” 

“Ja, well I _can_ protect myself.” Caleb interjects, arms crossed tightly, eyeing them, a golden anger snapping in the blue. 

Fjord gestures to him, “See there ya go, he'll be fine if you want to just stay up here and wait for us to get back.” 

Nott falters, brushing off Yasha’s hand, ears pressed flat and eyes darting from the ocean, to Caleb, and back to all of them. 

“No I'll... I'll go.” 

“Well, the good news is that I can do this at least,” Fjord touches her shoulder and there's a ripple of cyan energy, but there's not much of a noticeable difference besides that. 

“What did that do?” Caleb asks and Molly leans in, poking at the air around Nott, but his hand passes through where he could have sworn a barrier showed up for a split second.

“You'll see,” Fjord offers, ever mysteriously. 

“You better not have made it so water is _more_ attracted to me.” 

“I don't think that's how water wor-” 

“Shut up, Molly!” 

“It won't,” Fjord reassures, pointing to the softly tumbling waves, “Look, just wade in a bit and you'll see.” 

“If that water so much as touches me, Fjord, I swear to god I will--” She grumbles, but she's slowly picking her way down the slight slope anyways.

Caleb follows and stops her before she can reach the water, crouching down in front of her, hands on her shoulders and talking low enough none of them can hear. 

“Aw, that's so _cute_!” Jester leans into Fjord's side, patting him on the shoulder, tail whipping, “He _is_ like her son, just like you said.”

Nott seems to listen to whatever Caleb is saying, nodding and replying in kind and Molly can't help but watch the god, haloed by the splitting fractures of sunlight on the breaking waves. It's all kinds of blue framing him and Molly is starting to think it looks very, _very_ nice. An appealing compliment of copper hair and shimmering ultramarine in the backdrop. He wonders if his hair is as soft as it look--

“What do you think he's saying?” Beau leans over, stage whispering to him, and he pushes her away. 

“Mind your own business for once,” he shrugs her off, a bit annoyed that she interrupted his very important observations.

“Oo, now who's testy?”, she grins knowingly.

He says nothing, tail lashing and eyes narrowed at the satisfied smirk on her face. 

“Already getting defensive over him? Isn't it a little early for that? Considering you can't even get nake--” 

He throws a handful of sand right in her face, teeth grit. 

“Hey, what the fuck did I just say about squabblin’ you two?!” Fjord shouts. 

“Oh, you're so fucking _on_ ,” She lunges for him. 

“Hey!” Fjord tries again, but Molly is dodging around Beau, throwing out his leg and barking out a laugh when she trips face first into the sand. 

She leaps up with a snarl that's still half of a smile, his own curling grin mirroring hers. She throws a fist at him and he dodges back, ducks from another, steps back and back until he's standing in the water, the waves lapping at his boots. 

She swings, catching him in the jaw, but it's nothing like a real punch from her, and he just laughs. It turns into a surprised squawk when water closes around his waist and yanks him back.

It's all bubbles and ocean minutiae, a wavering blanket of shifting blue above him. The sounds of everything muffled and far way, concealed beneath the sway of the tide and he watches the rise and fall of the water above him, quiet, peaceful--- before a hand grips his and pulls him back above the surface, sputtering and coughing out the water caught in his lungs. 

“You're real fucking lucky I don't have to breathe, dick!” he growls, swiping at his lips with the back of his hand, going rigid when he realizes it isn't Fjord or even Beau that's pulled him up from the waves, but _Caleb._

“Uh..,” he stutters, realizing he's in just above chest deep water with the other, the rest of their weird party still on the shore, Nott talking animatedly about the fact that the water stays away from her even when she steps in it. 

“You okay?” 

His hand is still caught in the other’s and his head is doing odd things with that information. Things that _aren't_ him making some quip with a sharp grin and a wink or any of the usual flirtatious mannerisms that he might don here.

It's a _very_ distracting hum of energy after all… It's all light and gold, a small thread of it caught between their palms. 

“Yeah, ‘m fine, Fjord's just an asshole,” Molly says with a smirk, stomach twisting and neck warm. 

“We should get back to shore,” Caleb remarks with a small amused smile of his own that Molly kind of honestly love--.

Fuck. 

No, he can't get this attached… but Caleb isn't dropping his hand even as they wade to shore and that sensation is only getting more prevalent.

It's odd, it's a mingling of opposing auras, yet it feels like it belongs. It almost feels _right_.

He's all too displeased when his hand is finally dropped. 

“You look like a fucking drowned rat!” Beau laughs at him the second his boot hits the shore, pointing her finger and doubling over, “Oh, man if only you could have seen your face before you went under. Absolutely _priceless_. Definitely one for the memory books.” 

“Ha, ha, laugh it up, asshole,” he grumbles, arms crossed. 

She just cackles even more and Fjord claps him on the back, the water all but sliding off of him until he's dry again. 

“Sorry bout that, just knew if I did it to her she'd kick my ass.” 

“Oh, so _I'm_ the nice guy now?”

“Compared to her?” Fjord deadpans, “Yes.” 

“That's fair,” he sniffs, nodding.

“Well,” Fjord claps his hands, turning to the rest of them, “Now that that's over with, let's get this show on the road people.” 

Molly glances around while the others file towards Fjord and the water, keeping an eye out for familiar white fur. He's not sure where those two are off to now, but he has a feeling they'll make an appearance eventually. They always seem to follow him to things like this. Like they know he's about to walk headfirst into something potentially stupid and dangerous. 

“Saddle up y'all,” The god continues in a drawl, holding out a gauntleted arm, hand concealed in a fingerless black leather glove that doesn't hide the shimmer of aquamarine across the green skin. 

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Beau mutters to herself, standing beside him again. 

“I don't know… has he always been like this?” He whispers back, eyeing the ocean god. 

“He means touch his hand,” Jester explains with a wide smile, inserting herself between them, saying it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Well excuse me for never going underwater hunting before,” Beau mocks with a snide hand gesture. 

“That's okay!” Jester beams, wrapping an arm around Beau's shoulders and leaning into her, causing the other goddess to sway and stumble on the unstable sand, “It's very pretty and there's so many cool things down there and it's very, very blue which I know you _love_ and-- oh gosh, have you ever seen a _sea turtle_ they're like regular turtles, but like, of the _sea_ and--” 

” _Wow_ , no way, who would've thought,” Molly mutters sarcastically and it's Caleb who lightly smacks him on the shoulder for that. 

“Jes, let'em breathe a little,” Fjord chuckles, “They'll see it for themselves soon anyways.” 

“I've already seen it once,” Yasha says quietly behind them all. 

“Well, it's definitely changed a lot since…” Fjord trails off, glancing at the swells, “Let's just say ever since he left it's gotten much more alive down there for sure.”

“Good,” Yasha says, hand resting on the hilt of her blade. 

Fjord clears his throat, seeming to almost nervously adjust his armor before turning to address them all again with a smile. 

“Now,” He holds out his hand again, “Y'all ready to fuck up some monsters?” 

“Hell yes!” Beau claps her hand in Fjord’s, blinking at the ripple of blue energy that runs over her. 

“That was different from the thing before,” Caleb remarks, brow scrunched, echoing Molly’s own thoughts perfectly. 

“I gave Nott a bubble cause I know how she is, but y'all are getting a second skin.” 

Beau pokes at the light sheen, lip curled and eyes delighted, “Fuckin’ _sweet_.” 

Fjord just smirks, flexing his fingers and holding his hand out to them again. 

They each take their turn until they're all standing on the shore, lined in a strange tingle of energy that almost has a twinge of sea foam and salt air. Fjord helms the small party, leading them towards the water and Molly thinks it's the most surreal sensation when he's standing up to his chest but he can't feel the waves. There's no buoyancy either and it's effortless to maneuver against the sea. He can't help the delighted laugh that leaves him when he's fully submerged because it's just an endless expanse of blue and the colorful beginnings of a reef spread out before him. 

“Now don't get knocked unconscious while we're down here cause the effect’ll fade and I'm not sure about all of you but I'm pretty sure Molly is the only one here who doesn't need to breathe to live,” Fjord explains, still leading their party further in, weaving through the jutting outcroppings dotting the sea bed like tiny, vibrant islands. 

“Roger that,” Beau salutes lazily, her attention quickly caught by the ribbonous movement of an eel that drifts by her, flickering an iridescent wash of color in the sunlight streaming down from above. 

Fjord reaches over and breaks off the top of a staghorn coral, waving his hand over it and Molly gapes as it melts into a jagged, rough hewn dagger. He hands it off to Caleb with a pointed look and the other god reluctantly takes it. 

“Just in case,” is all Fjord says, patting Caleb on the shoulder before continuing on. 

Molly doesn't quite appreciate how ominous that sounded and if he rests his hand on the hilt of his own blade for the remainder of their journey through the reef, none of them need to know. 

Jester trots up next to him after twenty minutes or so of walking, her eyes locked on Caleb, briefly glancing down at the sketchbook she's frantically doodling in. Molly raises a brow at it because it must be enchanted to survive underwater and he's starting to question how much time she spends down here for that to become a necessity.

Molly glances over the page she's scribbling on and it's actually quite nice renderings of the members of their impromptu party… surrounded by dozens of tiny cartoon dicks, but that's beside the point. 

There's various little images of the others scattered on the page. Beau and him fighting in the surf with the cartoonish rendering of a monster wave behind him, Nott threatening him on the beach, Beau making heart eyes at an armored Yasha, _lots_ of Fjord, but it's the one she is currently working on that draws his eye. 

It's Caleb from behind and looking off to the side, pensive and quietly awed, highlighted by the fragments of light that manage to escape down here and Molly wonders if he can somehow steal the drawing when she's done without her knowing.

“I used to sketch a lot too.”

Molly startles, looking up from where he had been thoroughly inspecting Jester's rendering towards the actual Caleb who has fallen back to the other side of her, looking down at the page as well. 

“ _Oh_ , whatdidja used to draw?” Jester perks up, the constant luminescence she gives off only flaring brighter. 

“Just...things…” Caleb's ears color and it's highly visible in the glowing beacon of light Jester is giving off. 

The goddess just giggles, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands together, shutting the sketchbook all in one motion, her grin turning mischievous.

“Oh, gosh did you draw naughty things, _Cay-leb_?” She teases, leaning towards him eagerly.

“Nein, I just--” 

“Was it _naked_ people?” 

Caleb blinks, recoling and frowning like her question is absurd, “She was never nake--”

“So it was a _girl_?” Jester nods giddily, all too satisfied with the god's slip up, “Who was it? What was her name?” 

Now Molly's _very_ intrigued too.

“I-” 

“Was she pretty?” Jester croons, seemingly oblivious to Caleb's growing unease, “Did you _like_ her?” 

Caleb is near to wide eyed now, a deer firmly caught in the sights of a Jester-shaped wolf. Molly almost feels bad, he can see the jerky hitch of Caleb’s ribs and the way he's trying to wriggle out of the excitable goddess’ grasp. 

“Hey, Jester, how _are_ you and Fjord by the way? Anything new I should know about between you two?” He cocks a brow and waits for Jester to take the bait. 

The goddess whirls on him, a flush coloring her cheeks and Caleb lets out a relieved sigh behind her. Molly can't help but give himself a small mental pat on the back for saving him from the clutches of a gossip hungry Jester. 

“We're good, we're fine, friends and all you know,” she deflects but he can see the light around her flickering. 

“Is that so?” He tilts his head, eyes drifting up to where Fjord is leading them down a path carved out of the drop off. 

“Me and Fjord, the best of pals,” She gives a thumbs up, but her grin doesn't meet her eyes and Molly smirks knowingly. 

“Uh, huh,” he lets his skepticism bleed into every note. 

“We're not like together or anything,” she glances off to the side hugging her sketchbook to her chest, “Don't look at me like that, I'm not _lying_.” 

She's practically pouting now. 

“Oh, but you seem like you've spent an _awful_ lot of time down here.” 

“Yeah, I mean-” 

“You can't tell me that doesn't mean _something_.” 

“We're _just_ good friends,” And she's blushing from head to toe now and he's never seen her so flustered before. 

“Is Fjord still as oblivious as ever then?” 

“Yes,” the tension bleeds from her shoulders as it all turns to exasperation, “he's kind of a big idiot when it comes to any of this.” 

“It's been hundreds of years, you think the man would take a hint.” 

“ _Right_!” Jester groans, throwing her hands up, before looking back at him with pleading eyes,“Oh, gosh, Molly, I don't know what to do. Like, sometimes I swear I'll finally say something but then I just never do.” 

“If you can't say it out loud why not write him a letter?”

They both pause, freezing in place and turning to look at Caleb as one. 

“Huh?” Molly cocks his head and Jester mirrors him. 

“Ja, well, uh, a letter… explaining things, since you can't do it in person,” Caleb ducks his head, avoiding their eyes and there's that same color back in his ears. 

“That's not a bad idea actually,” Molly taps his chin, sending a sly look to Jester.

“Oh, I'm very good at calligraphy! I could write him the fanciest most heartfelt letter to ever exist!” She bounds up to Caleb, grabbing his face and planting a quick kiss on his forehead before pulling back with a series of giggles, “Thank you, Caleb!” 

“Nichts zu danken,” the god mumbles as Jester flounces off. 

“She's very… excitable,” Caleb remarks once the goddess is out of earshot, turning to him with a creased brow like he still isn't sure what exactly happened. 

“I would personally say _radiant_.” 

He doesn't miss the small smile and huff of air that's most definitely a quiet laugh from Caleb. 

“Yes, very _bright_ ,” the god says in return and Molly grins. 

“She sure _lightens_ the place right up, huh?” 

“Quite the _sunny_ individual,” Caleb nods and that smile is bigger now, teeth peeking through for once. 

“Oh, my god, are you two done with your _incessant_ flirting?” Beau fake gags behind them. 

“Just a harmless pun off, dear,” Molly shoots her a sharp look over his shoulder, “You could join in if you'd like.” 

“Puns are beneath me,” Beau sneers, lip curled. 

“Don't pretend like you haven't spent hours thinking up puns for Fjord," he says knowingly. 

“Okay, but we've _all_ done that.” 

“He's just too easy to mess with.” 

“Ain't that the damn truth,” she laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Whatever reply Molly had for that dies halfway out because they've rounded the corner of an outcropping of stones, an hour or so into their little underwater journey, and the palace sprawled out before them _glows_. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, hands on his hips. 

Beau whistles, craning her head back and Molly mimics her, squinting, looking up and up and it just seems to go on forever, “Yeah, damn, that is one big ass sand castle.” 

Molly snorts, “You think it's occupied by sea horse beings or something?” 

“Or some _real_ fancy ass mermpeople.” 

“No one's lived in those halls for a while now,” Fjord interrupts them, not looking back as he heads up the faintly luminescent, shell-white and terraced marble path inlaid with the designs of ocean creatures, both ones Molly's heard of and ones he's never seen before, “That's why it was one hell of a thing to hear there was something ‘round here.”

“They give you any clues?” Molly asks, squinting at the chiseled design of a strange two headed seal-like creature. 

“They just said it was big.”

“Helpful as always,” Beau sighs.

“Well it's what we got,” Fjord says, resigned. 

They stop at the entrance and it's already open. Two intimidating gateways of a door, trimmed in gold filigree and inlaid with the same simple but naturalistic designs. The palace is all towering spires and Corinthian columns, a heavy mixture of all kinds of worldly architectures and designs. Molly glances up and there's designs pressed into the fresco above them, tiles and paintings alike that map out a civilization lost to time. Overall very ornate and every definition of the word ‘flashy'.

“One hell of a place to cover a lot of ground in,” Beau remarks, leaning on her staff and eyeing what's visible of the interior from here. 

“We can split up to cover more ground,” Fjord offers, glancing over to him, “Molly in one group and Beau in another, that way we have some method of keeping an eye on each other and escape routes with each.” 

Molly grimaces. Splitting up in any scenario seems like a bad idea, but with him and Beau in each group there's at least a way out and a two way route of communication a la one particular pair of necklaces. 

“Take the east side of the palace, Molly, that one should have less blocked doors and leads to the courtyard eventually,” Fjord explains, “And who knows, there might be something out there.” 

“Oh, one sec, before I forget,” Jester rummages in the garishly pink haversack she decided to tote with her on this, and pulls free a handful of scallop shells.

She presses one into his palm and hovers her hand over it until it emits a strong aura of light. 

“I know you can see in the dark, but others can't and it'll help a bit,” her eyes flick to Caleb and he's starting to think she's drawing a lot of conclusions on what group he'll choose to be part of in the first place. 

But it can't hurt to find out.

“Who wants to join the east party?” He holds the illuminated shell between two fingers like a token.

Caleb raises his hand and Nott follows, eyes narrowed at the smug grin Molly gives in response to the god's decision. Only smiling wider when he passes the shell over and he can practically hear Nott growling at him under her breath.

Jester repeats the process with another shell and hands it over to Beau with a beaming smile. The monk snatches it from her, lip curled, and Molly can tell she doesn't like being reminded of her little handicap among them. 

Beau stalks over to him, going to brush by and join Fjord, Yasha, and Jester who have already wandered within the foyer, but she stops. 

“You get in trouble you get them out immediately, got it?” Beau whispers in his ear, hand clapped on his shoulder. 

“Wouldn't think of doing anything else.”

If things go tits up for any reason he'll get them out at any cost. She's foolish to think he wouldn't make sure two of the three seasons survive. Or that he'd let Caleb get hurt at all. 

“Good,” She pats him on the back, harder than necessary, and he stumbles forward, “Now get searching, pretty boy.” 

Molly rolls his eyes, tail snapping into her calf as he turns to leave their little impromptu meeting. 

“Watch where you swing that thing!”

“Oops, sorry, mind of its own sometimes, you know how it is,” he calls over his shoulder, heavy with all kinds of sarcasm that she just snarls back at, flipping him off. 

Molly passes into the palace and it's much darker than the outside, light filtering in from the windows, soft and ethereal. Nearly haunting how it bounces off the marble and suspends in the empty halls. It's a bit eerie all things considered and he rests an uneasy hand on his blade. 

“Do you enjoy getting under her skin?” Caleb asks and Molly honest to god startles because he hadn't even heard him come up beside him. 

He bites back the surprised curse, taking a moment to right himself and pretend like he didn't nearly jump out of his skin. 

“Pretty much,” he nods. 

“And she just lets you?” 

“We have a mutual ‘fuck with each other’ sort of agreement.” 

“Are you and her like--?” 

“Ha! Gods no,” Molly immediately shuts that down, “ _No_ , Beau is very interested in… other particular individuals and I have _no_ inclination towards her in that way. Ever.” 

“I was going to say ‘like brother and sister’, but that's good to know too I suppose,” Caleb says, near amused, fiddling with the glowing shell in his hands. 

And there he goes again, doing that thing where he jumps to conclusions and sticks his foot firmly in his mouth. 

“Oh, well, I mean… not really?” It's half of a question because even he's not sure. 

“You two just seem close, but in like a constant bickering sort of way,” Caleb frowns like he's trying to put together all the interactions he's seen between them in his head.

“Yeah,” Molly sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck, “She practically showed me the basics on being a god alongside Gustav so there's something there, but I don't know if it's familial. More just friends maybe” 

Caleb nods, lips pursed and Molly can tell he's skeptical. 

“Do you think talking is the best idea when there could be something in these halls?” Nott hisses from beside Caleb, glaring up at Molly. 

“You scared?” He teases, dropping his voice to amuse her. 

“ _No_ ,” she bites back but he can see her reaching for a flask at her hip. 

“Is fire and alcohol _really_ the smartest combination?” He asks, brow raising at the sight.

“It's the _best_ one.” 

He puts his hands up, laughing nervously at her defensive tone, “Hey, you're the expert.”

“Let's just get this over with as soon as possible,” Nott grumbles taking a long swig from the flask and Molly shoots Caleb a look but the god just shrugs and shakes his head, like this is all too normal for her to be doing in a situation like this. 

“Well don't get _too_ smashed," he offers with a smirk. 

“Don't tell me what to do," she bites back, taking another long drink.

“Bit of a fiery one isn't she?” He stage whispers to Caleb, loud enough that Nott can surely hear him. 

“Ja, well, she's always been a bit… hot headed,” Caleb offers in return with the hint of a smile. 

Molly chuckes, delighted that the other god latches so easily onto the small game of puns. 

“ _Ha, ha,_ you know I can hear you two right?” 

“That's kind of the point,” Molly laughs when Nott just scowls back at him. 

“At least I'm not a walking target,” She fires back, inserting herself between him and Caleb now. 

“This too flashy for you?” He adjusts his coat, preening and eyeing her with a knowing look.

“I don't see how it's practical for any kind of mission like this,” She points at his heeled boots, which are very much not quiet in the silent hush of the abandoned hallways, “Or _those_ for that matter.” 

“I like the way they make my legs look,” he fires back with a wink and she grimaces, but there's something thinly amused there too.

“Oh, so you're just vain,” she crosses her arms. 

“A little vanity never hurt anyone, dear.” 

“It will if it gets us killed.” 

“I think you're just jealous.” 

“Jealous of what?” she snorts, eyeing him, “Being a literal and figurative peacock?” 

Caleb stifles a laugh beside Nott at that one and Molly can't help but grin even wider. 

“I can't help what I am, I just do my best to flaunt it,” he brushes his hair back, tilting his head down to her and smirking.

Nott just rolls her eyes at him.

“Well maybe do it a little less obnoxiously while we're trying to stealth.” 

“ _Are_ we stealthing?” He asks, gesturing between them. 

Nott flips up the hood of the cloak she's wearing, her visage obfuscating, “We are now.”

“So… radio silence then?” 

“Quiet.” 

She paces ahead, nearly silent and it's strange how she becomes lost in the shadows so effortlessly for someone with so much fire under her skin. 

“She's a delightful one as ever,” he says, turning back to Caleb with a raised brow.

“She's just a bit high strung from being underwater, she's not usually that…” Caleb trails off, waving his hand like he's searching for a particular word.

“ _Burnt_ out?” Molly supplies with a mischievous lilt.

Caleb snaps his fingers, pointing at him, a small smirk on his face, “Ja, that.” 

“Well, I--” 

“Hey, there's a door up here that I can't pick.”

“Fu--,” Molly startles back at the sudden reappearance of the goddess, “Little warning next time would be nice.” 

“Maybe pay closer attention," she snaps but it doesn't hold any of the fire it used to. 

“What do you mean you can't pick it?” Caleb seems unphased by her stealthiness, already latching onto the problem at hand. 

“There's nothing to pick, it's just a slate of marble.” 

“ _Was_?”

She just grabs Caleb’s hand, dragging him forward and Molly follows, brow furrowed. He didn't know Nott could pick locks, let alone sneak around like some well seasoned rouge. And he's really starting to figure out a lot of odds and ends about both of these seasons that he didn't expect. 

They stop in front of a well decorated door jamb. It's as ornate as all of the others and there's a large pane of glass, stained and inlaid with designs, spanning the wall beside them. The rays of sunlight that make it through reflect about the space in a wavering prism that dances across them in a dim spill of chroma. The shell in Caleb’s hand serves to cut apart the remains of darkness as he holds it up, inspecting every inch of the door that he can reach. Molly doesn't need an enchanted shell to figure out there's no handle, no keyhole, and no way past it. 

“So much for Fjord claiming this was the easy path,” he sighs, arms crossed.

“Can you make a gateway that goes through it?” Caleb glances back to him, a hopeful intrigue in his eyes and Molly has never seen someone so keen on solving a puzzle and a mystery before. 

“Yes, in theory,” he muses, “but since I've never seen the other side of it, I don't have a visual, and we don't know what's waiting beyond it, it's not a very good idea.”

“Verdammt.”

Caleb’s eyes dart around the door again and Molly can practically hear the gears turning in his head. He paces, inspecting every inch of the walls around it, still using the shell as his source of light, and Molly’s enraptured in the way he's all but muttering to himself. Seemingly oblivious and uncaring about him and Nott watching him think this through.

“There has to be…” Caleb locks onto the wall sconce beside the door, frowning. 

He looks to the one adjacent to it on the other side, head tilting. 

“What?” Molly asks, trying to pick up what the other is seeing as well, but he can't figure out what's caught his attention about them. 

“They're...uneven.” 

Molly steps back, putting a hand up as a makeshift level and squinting and sure as the day is bright, they're off. 

“Well I'll be damned, good eye, Caleb.” 

Caleb just nods, rubbing at his jaw and Molly can't help but notice the barest hint of scruff on it. He wonders how often the god lets it grow out and if it would add to the whole 'vaguely homeless hippie forest god aesthetic' or not. He also thinks it would really chisel out his jaw and he's _definitely_ interested in seeing more of it now. 

Caleb walks up to the lower sconce, reaching up on his tiptoes to grab the curled tail of the carved seahorse piece and tries to pull it down. And even though Molly has seen this god in everything but clothes already he is still very distracted by that bit of pale, freckled skin that shows just at his lower back from where his shirt lifts up.

He doesn't realize he's been staring for a bit longer than proper until Nott smacks him on the arm and glares up at him. 

“Maybe help?” She gestures towards where Caleb is still trying his damndest to pull it down. 

Molly smoothly recovers, sending her a sly grin, “Sure thing, short stack.”

He sidles up next to the still struggling Caleb, the god practically putting his bare feet on the wall for leverage to try and yank the sconce downwards. 

“Need a hand?”

Caleb glances back at him, seemingly startled by the offer before nodding jerkily. 

“I, ja, sure...just,” Caleb shuffles to the side, hands still on the carved marble.

Molly easily inserts himself into the space, and if he stands a bit closer than necessary no one needs to know. He reaches up, closes his hands around it, sliding them down until the side of his hand brushes Caleb's. And there's that thread again, the golden one, the little buzz of energy. He's practically pressed to the side of the other and he can nearly feel that thrum there as well. If he just leans a little bit closer it might--

Caleb clears his throat and Molly blinks, looking over at him, the god's eyes darting pointedly up towards where they're both holding the carved marble. 

“Oh right...on three then?” He asks, covering up the initial pause easily with a grin. 

“Ja,” Caleb nods, “Eins, zwei...drei.”

They both pull at once and it gives easier than Molly expected, _too easily_. The sections he's holding onto snaps along with the one in Caleb's hands and Molly goes stumbling back. Caleb tries to catch himself but falls back into him anyways and then they're both tumbling down. 

Molly blinks owlishly, because he's on his back somehow, cool marble beneath him and Caleb is propped up above him. He must have twisted around to catch himself and now he's here, hands to either side of Molly's horns and pressed along the front of him and that's doing all kinds of interesting things to his thoughts. There's a quip at the tip of his tongue, a sly smile awaiting to curl his lip as he watches Caleb slowly process what's happened. That curling of gold energy is a sparking fire along him and if it's this strong with layers of clothes between them Molly wants to know what it would feel like with much less. 

“Looks like you're _fallin_ -,” 

“The door didn't open.”

 _\--g for me._

Caleb scrambles up at Nott's interruption, shaking his head like he's coming out of a trance and Molly can't help but pout a bit, because he had the perfect pun and everything. A cheesy classic, but a great one. 

Molly gets to his feet, smoothing out his shirt and coat and trying to pretend like there isn't all kinds of warm tingles zapping across his skin. 

“I don't understand, it should have--” Caleb starts but a rumble drowns him out.

It's the sound of something large, an earthquake ripple through the palace that sends centuries old air pockets dislodging and silt drifting down from the ceiling. Caleb looks to him with wide eyes and Molly is pretty sure his aren't faring any better. 

“What was that?” Nott asks, her voice cracking. 

It happens again, louder, more violent and Molly loses his footing for a terrifying moment. The glass window cracks and shatters with the popping skitter of glass and his eyes trail a snaking series of fissions along the marble ceiling. This time it's all accompanied by a bone chilling screech that rips through the very core of him.

It's something ancient, something that was never meant to survive into this age.

It sounds like it's coming from back towards the front entrance too. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” 

He grabs the necklace, focusing on it and there's just the image of Fjord shouting and pointing at something from its vantage point on Beau's neck, the falchion in his hand illuminating his own form but nothing beyond that. The water is turned inky black and viscous around him. And there's no sign of Jester and Yasha.

“We gotta go,” He unsheathes the scimitar, slashing it through the water and concentrating on a point just outside the entrance, “ _Now._ ” 

He ushers them through, hoping whatever it is isn't waiting just at the other side before dashing through himself, coming to a halt when he's just met with that same low visibility he saw in the necklace. Darkness shouldn't be a problem for him, he should be able to see at least something, outlines, shapes-- he runs a hand through where it becomes thickened, just at the beginning of the steps, and pulls it back. There's ink covering the thin barrier that's laid over his skin. 

“Uh?" he turns to Nott and Caleb holding up the stained hand, brow furrowed. 

“Molly!” Beau comes barreling out of the dark cloud, covered from head to toe in washes of the stuff, “Oh, holy shit, okay, so you're not gonna believe this but--” 

“Just cut to the chase.” 

“I'm getting there!” She barks, cracking her staff against the marble, “There's a fucking kraken.” 

Nott makes a strangled squeaking sound behind him, “A kraken?!” 

“Fjord and the others are distracting it right now but it did this ink cloud shit and I can't see shit in there so I came to get you guys, but you're already here and--” 

“Woah, woah, wait, okay,” Molly waves his hands in the air, “You're telling me there's a _kraken_ out there?” 

There's that same rumbling sound, far more chilling and predatory than before considering the new context. 

“Uh, yeah, yeah there kind of fucking is.” 

“Uh…” His brain is still trying to connect the dots between something a bit strange being reported in the palace to _a literal fucking titan of the sea_. 

He doesn't have time to really mull on it any longer, because there's a harsh gust of water that tears through the space, the masssive blot of ink dissapearing with it. And now he can see Fjord standing with his hand raised at the center of it, Yasha and the others beside him, and a massive monster of a squid before them. 

It's a monstrosity from head to tentacle, an unholy aberration that dwarfs them and it's undeniably _pissed_. 

Beau puts out her hand, brow raised expectantly and Molly takes it, holding his out to Caleb until they form a similar chain as before and suddenly they're standing behind Fjord and the others, gaping up at the kraken writhing and convulsing in front of them. 

“Can't you just tell it to shoo?” Molly asks, trying to maintain that same cheeky lilt, but it's hard when all he can focus on are putrice yellow eyes that have a sickly luminescence to them.

“Do I look like the kraken whisperer to you?” Fjord shoots back, raising his hand again, swiping it across and the kraken is batted to the side but otherwise unphased by the unwanted currents of water. 

“No, but you sure as fuck look like the _god of the sea_.” 

“I know,” Fjord sighs, glancing over his shoulder, “But it won't listen to me.

“Well ain't that bloody convenient,” Molly drawls, brandishing his scimitar when the kraken starts to look more agitated, creeping closer to their little party. 

“They' aren't supposed to be here, they're dead...we got rid of them all,” Yasha says beside him, arcs of electricity snapping across her armor, her brow furrowed and mismatched eyes locked onto the kraken with a righteous fervor. 

“Obviously not,” Molly grumbles eyeing the very much alive abomination. 

“I can see that,” Fjord says, teeth grit, pushing the kraken back with another wave of his hand. 

Molly isn't sure how long that'll keep working and he knows they'll eventually have to fight it head on anyways. 

“How do we kill it then?” He asks, looking it over for a weak point, a soft underbelly to go for among all of the horror.

“Just hit 'em with everything you have and don't stop until it's not moving," Fjord supplies, voice grim, "and no lightning Yasha."

“I know,” the goddess nods, hoisting up the Storm Warden's blade and taking a step forward.

Fjord drops his hand, returning it to the hilt of his falchion and there's nothing holding back the kraken anymore. It all but scours across the sea bed, kicking up silt and sand, clouding it's form beneath a layer of shifting granule tan as it approaches. 

“Here's to seeing you all in the aether,” Molly mock salutes, watching the hooked barbs in the suckers of the tentacles, the rows of teeth behind the beak that snaps open and closed, and the general uneasy way it's bulbous, slimy skin shifts and gives and pulls across it's massive frame. 

“We'll be fine!” Beau spins and slams the staff into an approaching tentacle with a ripple of energy, the kraken recoiling it with a hissing screech, “We're gods right?” 

The monk glances over her shoulder at him, a satisfied smile curling her face and he can tell she's _thrilled_ by this, her nose wrinkled into a delighted snarl.

“What could possibly go wron-?” 

Molly barely has time to blink before the tentacle that she parried is back and curling around her torso, lifting her up in a single breadth of a second. 

“Beau!” Jester shouts above the din, lunging for her.

Molly curses, leaping forward to try and catch up with the retracting limb, but Yasha moves before all of them can. The Storm Warden's blade a searing crackle of energy as it slices up through the meat of the tentacle and severs it in one clean swipe. 

Beau tumbles to the ground, slipping out of the thrashing appendage, blackened blood drifting from the stump and clouding the water. There's the faint shine of gold ichor on her arms where the barbs hooked in, but nothing extremely grievous, and she shakes off the initial shock, face contorting into a crumpled rage. 

“I will turn this motherfucker into _kalamari_ ,” she growls, low and dangerous, a promise caught in her eyes and she turns, taking off towards the kraken again and Molly tries to snag her but she's already off. 

“Bloody idiot! You're going to get yourself hurt!” He calls after her, but she just flips him off over her shoulder and swings her staff around, dragging it through the silt and swiping it forwards, right towards the towering creature. 

A shockwave of energy bursts outwards from the low sweep, visible only with the wake of froth it kicks up and the sand captured in it. It slams into the kraken's hide, the area under its eye caving in with a burst of black blood and it _screeches_. A horrendous shattering cry that has the hair along Molly's nape raising and hand tightening on the hilt of his scimitar. 

There's no sound, not even the constant hum of the ocean, and he shakes his head, blinking because all that's left is a high pitched whine. He glances around blearily to see the others are just as affected and he winces when the creature does it again. 

Beau is barking something over her shoulder at them but he can't hear her words, just the rush of blood in his ears and the nauseating ring trapped in his skull. He glances over to see Caleb reach into that bag slung across his shoulder, a trickle of gold trailing from his ears and down his neck and Molly thinks his probably mirror him. 

Caleb raises his palm, a fine, rusted powder cupped in it and he points it towards the kraken, eyes narrowed. There's a fire sparking in them as he claps his hand down over it, smearing the powder forward, off the tips of his fingers and into the water with a spark of light.

The sound morphs, turning shrill and small and Molly turns back to see the kraken has shrunk to a more manageable sized beast. And it's like a vice has suddenly been snapped off his skull because that ringing is _finally_ gone and he can hear and think again.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, rubbing at his ear and wincing. 

“What the hell was that?” Nott asks, flames dancing along her palms and eyes darting around at the expanse of blue surrounding them.

“I'm not sure but--” 

There's an answering, echoing call that interrupts Fjord and Molly pales. 

“There's fucking two of them!?” Beau shouts, leaping for the currently shrunken one, but Yasha snags her by the arm. 

“Everyone get back!” Yasha shouts, eyes locked onto a growing blot of darkness above them.

Molly tears open a gateway, stumbling back through it and the others follow. They reappear back at the terraced entrance of the palace, Beau popping in with her own method of quick travel and Yasha in tow.

“Okay, so there's two. Now what?” Beau asks, glancing to all of them. 

“Molly, Fjord, and Beau you take the one on the left. We'll handle the other,” Yasha quickly decides and Molly's never been more glad to consider her the leader of the Council.

“Got it,” Beau nods, tearing off towards the new target instantly. 

Molly hesitates.

There's two primordial beasts, (whatever Caleb did to the one having worn off or dissipated somehow), cracking the marbled decorum and ripping apart the sprawling garden of sea life that once framed the entrance of this place and he's a bit in over his head here.

He glances over to Caleb, meeting the other's eyes for a split second, an apology on his lips for inadvertently dragging him into this mess, but the other god just looks focused and intent, turning narrowed eyes back to the kraken with a determined tilt to his lips. 

“Come on, Molly, we've got a squid to kill,” Fjord claps him on the back like they're just about to go at a round of cards and not toe to toe with an ancient beast. 

It's easier to fall into a more readied mind set when he's faced with the immediate threat somehow. When there's one of its rippling, grotesque tentacles reaching for him. It's easy to slash the section in two, the onyx blade greedily absorbing the blood, veins of blackened, poisonous sickness skittering from the wound and it's effortless to do it again and again. 

“Fjord!” He hears Beau shout after awhile, “You're going to have a lot of explaining to do after this!” 

“How the fuck was I supposed to know it was _two_ krakens, let alone _one_?!” Fjord calls back, falchion biting into the bulbous hide under its eye. 

“God. Of. The. Sea.” Beau bites out loudly as her only explanation, each word punctuated by a strike with her staff to the kraken before she's retreating and putting distance between herself and it. 

“That doesn't mean I'm omniscient!”

“Well maybe you should be!”

“Hey!” Molly interrupts them, slashing open another devouring wound in the side of it, the skitter of sickness on it's flesh only growing, “We have two big ass hentai monsters to kill, we can tear Fjord a new asshole later!” 

“Why is this all my fault?!” 

“Because!” Beau leaps back from a swing. 

“That's not a very good explanation!” Fjord clenches his fist and a portion of the tentacle aiming for him crumples inwards, blood clouding the water. 

“Too bad! I'm busy killing this motherfucker!” 

Fjord and Beau have the thing distracted for the most part and he's kind of prone to being a selfish idiot so he takes a step back and looks over to see how the others are doing.

Jester catches one of the other kraken's limbs with her hands, impossibly resisting being bowled over by it and Molly raises his brows at the impressive show of strength, only hiking them higher when the appendage ignites and bursts into a scatter of radiant light that is near blinding. Nott is clinging onto one of the tentacles and sending flames up through it that turns parts of it into floating ash and honestly it's one hell of a clever way to work around the whole water issue. Yasha is cleaving at whatever limb comes towards her, relentless strikes that bloody the water and muddy her visage in growing clots of ebony. Caleb is the furthest back from it, near to their own quarry, and that's dangerous because his back is turned to the second beast. He's concentrating on something, fingers weaving in the air until the kraken the others are grappling _slows_ down and Molly can't help but be impressed. 

He's about to turn back to his own fight, satisfied with everyone's relative safety for now, and ready to finish off this stupid squid, when there's a pain at the back of his skull. It's not debilitating like before, but highly _annoying_. It worsens the longer he looks at Caleb until he's squinting and he finally blinks--

_\--the snap of a tentacle through the water, slamming into the sea bed and drawing back with a familiar figure clutched in its grip. The dying fizzle of cyan magic around him, the alarming spill of bubbles from his lips, and Molly can't get there fast enough. He can only watch as it draws back towards that gaping beak and--_

His eyes snap open and it doesn't take him more than a second to make a decision. 

He rips the scimitar up, runs through the gateway and doesn't stop when he reappears feet from the god, slamming his shoulder into Caleb and shoving him away as the kraken writhes. The tentacle he saw in the snapshot swings around and drives into him before he even gets his blade up to stop it.

Hooks latch into his torso, arms pinned to his sides as he's hoisted up, and fingers firmly clenched around the hilt of his scimitar. He strains against the crushing grip, feels the sting of the claws digging further into him, and that beak only looms closer.

He knows that there's just a bath of acid waiting beyond it.

He wriggles, winces at the tearing and ripping of flesh, clouds of gold dissipating in the water around him, until finally he wrenches his arm free. He kicks the scimitar up to his free hand, grasping it and turning to slash down at the arm holding him when there's a _burn_ in his palm. 

“Fuck, no, come on, _not again_ \--” He whines, trying to keep his grip on it but the sensation only worsens. 

He can hear the huffing ancient trill of that monster, the heat from it far too noticeable this close and he's never been more glad to be trapped underwater because he's sure it would smell like all manner of putrid rot and decay that would send him gagging.

The spark intensifies, tearing down his arm until he reflexively releases the blade. He fumbles for it, fingers grasping at where it drifts, suspended in the water for a hopeful moment. He reaches for it desperate and frantic because that beak is even closer now and he can see it all too clearly now, lined with teeth and opened wide in his peripheral and everything is moving so much faster than it feels. 

“Not now you stupid fucking-” He grips the hilt and it _ignites_ under his palm, the rubies in the hilt flaring, and he can only watch as it tumbles down and away from him. 

His salvation buries into the sand at the base of the kraken with a plume of silt and he turns his head at the push of sickly warm water along the side of his face. There's just jagged rows of bone and a cracked shell of gaping jaws that _dwarf_ him. 

“Shit-” 

And it goes all kinds of dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Molly /is/ Raven from That's So Raven. You're welcome. 
> 
> But seriously… being part of the whole death trio Past, Present, and Future has its perks. You can probably guess which one Morrígan was. 
> 
> ~And magical sword shenanigans~ 
> 
> And cliffhanger. Because 11,000 words was already long enough of a chapter.  
> You ever write something and then you read it and you're not sure if it makes any sense or fits in with everything you've established in your world but you also don't care because it's just fanfiction but you're also low key anxious about holes in your world building. That's me with this story and this chapter and everything. :) and finals at school  
> \-------------------------///-----------------
> 
> Also the response to this story has been crazy~ I didn't expect anyone to want to read this once I took the wheel and spun this boat into uncharted waters. Cause I damn well know we're out somewhere in left field now and that I've all but tossed canon into the deepest darkest pit, but you all still read this so thanks for that <3 <3 <3And thanks for enjoying my weird ass writing style, dumb humor, and characterizations of these idiots. <3 <3I appreciate every comment and kudos and you all make it worth writing this weird shit my brain comes up with <3 <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowie uh. im alive. hello. have 12k words of more me being dumb and these bois being dumb too.
> 
> ****forewarning for some gore and depictions of being stabbed through the chest/sternum if that squicks you****
> 
>  
> 
> Tommy made an aesthetic Pinterest Board for this story and I'm in love https://pin.it/n4hwh5zjfsbzyg
> 
> The Widomauk Discord is a blessing 🙏
> 
> Also still unbetaed and full disclosure I'm dyslexic so editing is like the bulk of my time with writing because hoo boy is it a mess to go back and read what I've written sometimes. and even then I still miss shit because it just looks A-okay to me but really its not.

He's not sure how it got to to this point. 

They had been on the beach and it had been sprawling and endless and as blue as anything Caleb had ever seen. The infinity of it had trapped him in that sheen and the glisten it called its guise. It seemed harmless above the surface and even below; a tangled net of life and teeming fauna of all manners and forms he had never seen before. 

When Fjord had handed him that dagger he hadn't understood why, distracted by the whole slew of seemingly harmless life around him and the people beside him. Jester drawing him back into memories he hadn't thought about in quite some time, to the pages of a book filled with notes and sketches and a face he'd rather not remember but can't forget. 

And then there's Molly among them all. 

A brush of deep lavender and shadow everytime he touches him. It seems inevitable, as if the very fates were against him to avoid that strange reverb of energy. And when he ended up on top of him it had was all he had been able to process until Nott interrupted them. He's not even sure why it's there, why it doesn't feel the same as Morrígan's own aura, nor why he keeps ending up in contact with the other even when be tries to maneuver around it. 

Though he hadn't avoided it when he fished him out of the water… But he had been the closest besides Beau and that was just pure pragmatism to be the one to help him up. 

And now he's on his ass in the sand, blinking up in surprise at the sight of Molly caught in the grasp of a tentacle meant for him and he barely has time to process the scimitar falling from the god's grip and the parted beak before Molly _disappears._

He leaps to his feet, ribs frantic and jerky because this idiot had the audacity to save his skin but not his own. 

“Molly!” Jester cries and Yasha just shouts, the bloodied results of her rage coloring her in coats of ebony. 

In the same breath the kraken Beau and Fjord are still grappling lets out a high keening whine that devolves into a gurgle. He winces at the sickening pop and burst of flesh caving in behind him, accompanied by Beau cursing and gagging. Caleb looks back over his shoulder and there's just a cloud of viscera, meat, and bones, all a suspended myriad of midnight in the water.

“Fuck, why didn't you do that before?” Beau barks out, wiping at the stains of ink and blackened blood on her arms. 

“Wasn't weak enough before.”

“Then splatter the other one!” Beau points and Caleb watches Fjord raise his hand, a spike of panic rising at the thought of what could happen if he did that while Molly is trapped inside. 

“Wait!” Jester shouts, throwing her hands up, “Molly's in there!” 

Beau's eyes widen, fists clenching around the now stained staff, going rigid and still, locked in on the still writhing nightmare. 

“Beau, look, I know, but we can't just go willy nilly about this it could hurt hi--” 

“I'm in charge of him!” She barks at Fjord, stalking forward with a snarl, “He's my ward, not yours!” 

“You'll hurt him Beau, just let me--” 

“Don't tell me what the fuck I can and can't do, ocean boy,” She shoves past him, prowling towards the kraken, sand kicking up behind her steps. 

“Jester!” Fjord calls and the goddess nods before taking off after Beau, all but tackling her in a bear hug. 

Beau snarls, shoving at the goddess pinning her to the sea bed and shouting obscenities at Fjord. He ignores her, quickly turning his attention to the kraken and raising a hand that's now minutely trembling and Caleb wonders just how much Molly means to these people that they're this frightened by what's happening.

He can feel a similar tension under his skin, sending a heat skittering across his shoulders and beneath his sternum and he can't tell if it's rage, exasperation, or _fire_. Because that _dummkopf_ , that absolute _imbecile_ pushed him out of the way when Caleb could have gotten away on his own if he had just pointed it out. The other part is a mounting fear that gnaws at him and tears up into his throat, because he's not sure what kind of damage being swallowed by a kraken can do and if he can even do anything to reverse it. 

Fjord half clenches his fist, looking over to Yasha when the kraken stills, blood still seeping into the water around it. Battered, bruised, burnt and torn to pieces, it's large bulbous eye rolling to Fjord and a rumbling primal growl rocks through the water, embedding in Caleb's chest and rattling alongside the fear borne of something all too primal. It has him taking a step back even as the kraken stills, the twisting tentacles slipping to a halt and the water around it tightening in a vice, a snare slipped around its neck. 

“Dig him out of there,” Fjord huffs out, tightening his raised hand as the kraken thrashes, forcing it to still once more. 

That rumble only worsens and the hair along Caleb's nape rises, everything in his skull ringing danger and marking it threat. But Molly’s in there and he had _saved_ him. 

He stumbles after Yasha, Nott shouting his name behind him but he doesn't stop. Beau finally manages to shove Jester off, clawing her way to her feet and eating up the distance between her and the kraken with a click of her heels. Throwing her staff to the side and digging for a sheathed dagger at her hip and Caleb makes it there to the chorus of her desperately hacking at the hide. It's thick and rubbery, spongy and all kinds of wrong. Pustules of sickness blistering its skin and bursting with pockets of acid that Beau ignores, barely wincing where it burns her hands. 

“Wait, let me--” he tries but she just keeps going. 

“Fucking dumbass idiot, I swear to--” She growls and Caleb eyes her because there's a fury snapping in her eyes that he can't comprehend, a rage cinched between her grit teeth that manifests in the way she keeps dragging the blade through flesh that peels into ribbons of spreading black. 

There's the sharp snick of metal through meat and a thud behind him and he turns to see Yasha making quick work of detentacling the beast for good now that it's stopped twisting and thrashing. She shoots a worried glance to Beau and there's so much tangled up in that one look that Caleb can't ever possibly understand. There's a history here that's lost to him, as foreign to him as these strange gods who he's only heard of as fables and myths, as unbeatable vanquishers of the second calamity, but they are far more mortal when met face to face. 

It's strange to watch that marble pedestal he held them on _crumble_. 

“Beauregard,” He places a hand on her shoulder, “Let me try something.” 

The goddess tenses, going to shove him off, but she steps aside and Caleb eyes the myriad of hacking marks she's managed to make. Nott would be better at this, but she's already done enough for these people by just being here. 

He sticks his fingers into the widest wound, ignores the slip and slide of muscle and blubber and reaches as far as he can go, nails digging into sinew. The acid slowly crumbles away the wraps concealing his arm, silver runes peeking through, and his skin continuously burning and healing in a rapid cycle that's nearly nauseating. A fire snaps under his skin, he can feel it just at his fingertips, fueled by everything caught up in him. 

He lets it go. 

It tears across the hide, eating up the flesh and hungrily disintegrating the section his hands are plunged into and he can only hope the flames don't go too far in. The blubber sloughs away, the thick barrier turning into a melting globular of muddy ash in the water. A burbling, glopping slide of kraken slops right into his feet and he shakes off his hands, backpedaling, the acidic blood biting and stinging where it's managed to coat him in thick clinging layers. He can't stop the wraps from falling off of his arm completely, sliding off in a dangerous ribbonous viper and drifting to the seafloor as harmless crimson flotsam. 

The revealed glimmer of silver sends him wincing. 

He knows that the burning sensation is just the acid, he _knows_ it is. He knows it...but-- He paws at the black blood, nails dragging across his skin because he needs to get it off. It's far too familiar and he can feel his chest hitching. He misses when Beau crawls forward into the exposed internals, the sound of her maneuvering through the mess of it would be gruesome and probably send him shuddering if he wasn't caught staring at the runes on his arm and wondering why they're still hurting. 

He distantly hears Jester approach, everything a bit far away and strange, _off_. The world tilted on its axis and he's not sure how to reach out and right it. She brushes by him, asks if he's okay and he can feel himself nodding and dismissing her but it's odd because he's not there. He's stuck in that part of him that's trying to figure out how to make the burning stop, puzzle through what he needs to do to get it to go away. Understand what order to follow, what directive to constrain himself to, that part of him that seeks Ikithon like a hound to its master because he's not sure why he has to heel here but the sting in his arm says he _does_. 

He watches, vacantly, blearily, awash in a delirium that should have vanished a mortal's lifetime ago as Beau drags Molly out of the kraken. He's covered in that same viscous black, clothes half eaten and skin bubbled and caving and it's the very image of horrifying because he thinks he can see his finger bones and the shine of teeth through his warped cheek. And that burn is still tearing across his skin and he wonders when it will start to eat at that semblance of energy curled under his sternum until he's crumpled on the ground and writhing. He just needs to figure out what he's supposed to do so it doesn't get worse, but he doesn't see Ikithon here and his brow furrows because it's far too blue and far too open compared to the constricted, darkened halls and low candlelight of--

“--aleb?” 

He blinks, snapping back, shaking his head and rubbing at the lingering pain in his arm. It's mostly gone now, the blood washed away with the continuing, lazy ocean current around them. Yet it doesn't stop the unease, the prickle of nerves along his neck and the cold, creeping tiptoe of an old fear down his spine. 

“ _Was_?” He asks, murmured, nearly lost among the popping burble of a dying abomination and the loud vestiges of a dogma lodged in his head that tells him to obey when there's no order to follow. 

“Is there anything you can do here?” Beau is quiet, voice grim and controlled and nothing like he's heard it be so far. 

Caleb looks at all of them; wide eyed, open, and all too mortal in this moment, coated in spots of ink and blood that lazily drifts into the water-- and they're looking at him like he might be their savior. Yet they aren't demanding of him, they aren't ordering him to heal and fix where he was never meant to, they're just watching, and he can see it, that nervous tension, that unease, because they don't know him and he doesn't know them besides tales and myths distorted to time and embellishments. He could say no, he could refuse, he could back away, because he isn't there tool, he isn't their dog to sit and stay and obey for them. 

But Molly saved him. 

He crouches down next to the god, Jester kneeling on the other side of him. 

“Can you heal acid burns?” She asks, a murmur compared to her usual exuberance. 

“I can try.” 

He's not practiced at this. Giving life is his gift, not upkeeping it. He had been willing to try to do something for Kylre since he was just a fiend, but a _god_ … that's a bit out of his league. Forest animals, plants, mortals, that's all second nature, that's all easy. Their threads of life small and insignificant to bolster and repair, giving them an extra year, a few more days, even decades in some cases. All of it is nothing off his own continuous thread. Paired with...specific conditions he knows he can even give someone a _lifetime_ that was never meant to be theirs. He knows he can mend a shred of broken potential to someone else's and keep them alive and young with the years that were meant for someone else. He knows he can do it because he did it so many times it was _effortless_. A violent and bloodied ritual buried in the depths of taboo and forbidden to those immortal and mortal alike because Death is as necessary as Life.

He knows he can do things these other gods can't. That he's powerful in ways they could never be. Not in the might of the sea or the fury of summer and the harshness of judgement but he can give life and that's something none of them can _ever_ do. 

But healing a god is a _sacrifice_. 

And it's one he's never had to do. The thread of fate is far less linear for them. That golden twisting string, when he focuses on it, seeks it, is never as straightforward as mortals and simpler immortals. It's so much more. He's not sure how he would even go about mending it, adding to to it, trading that damaged section for a piece of his own.

He glances over Molly, hand hovering over his sternum, brows creased because he can see it; amongst the dissipating trails of golden ichor and the ebony blood and the tatters his clothes have melted into. The tattoos peaking through the ruined fabrics, that distracting weave of shimmering and lively ink, and he thinks it's strange because usually that thread stays coiled beneath a person's sternum until he pulls at it; close to their heart and soul, safe and protected, but Molly's only begins there. Nestled beneath a revealed net of blackened dendritic scars and a large healed tear across it, like something ran him through, cracked the sternum and severed the string. 

The line is bundled there but it's broken in spots, slotted with dull grey patches and it's _odd_ \-- because it snakes up to a red marking on his neck, an eye that stares back at Caleb as much as he stares at it. He trails it to the next one, and the next, nine stopping points in total, (some he can't see yet but can only infer) glaring crimson markings nestled amongst a tapestry of vibrant colors. He reaches the end of it, frayed in the center of Molly’s palm, coiled atop the final eye like its pupil. He reaches for that dulling thread with trembling fingers.

Someone pulls at his arm, wrenching him away from it, “Caleb, you don't know what this could do.” 

He pulls out of Nott's grasp, frowning at her. Maybe he doesn't-- Maybe because he's never had to do this before. And he's not sure if this is is one of the reasons Nott kept him away from the fighting during the second Calamity or why she continued to keep him away after it too, but it's too late for that. 

“He's bleeding out, Nott… I can't just leave him.” 

The acid had worked to cauterize some of the wounds by melting the flesh and twisting it into shiny pockets, but there's large tearing marks, punctures that weep trails of gold into the water. And while Molly doesn't have to breath it doesn't take extensive knowledge of the god’s anatomy to see he is far too pale. Nor that the thread, that pulses with a low twinge of lavender and midnight, is fading.

He saved him… even if it was stupid and foolish, he still did it and Caleb owes him at least this. 

He closes his eyes, pulls for that similar tangle of gold under his sternum rather than the fire, and places his hand over that unseeing alizarin eye in Molly's palm, fingers twining with his.

\------------------///----------------

__  


He's standing in the halls of the Sanctuary.

_Eyes turned to the towering ceiling, towards it's gilded and decorated rafters and the endless sprawl of paintings and mosaics. To those ancient frescoes preserved through time into a sprawled depiction of creation hung overhead. The beginning a cloud of darkness and ruin, chaos and disorder that spawns fiends and hellish aberrations from its depths. Light is created and it changes the world and he traces along that progression, through the rise of new gods and the fall of old ones and things he doesn't even know yet. He pauses on a moon above a battlefield, an uncannily familiar one, the sky bled a poisonous green, a lone celestial body where there should stand two stalwart sentinels amongst the sky. But it's not a moon, he blinks and it's an _eye_. _

_“Did you see Kord's new champion?”_

_The voice startles him and he looks back to the entrance to the main chamber, two figures emerging. Both familiar, but odd, wavering and distant, like the foggy tint of a memory… He looks down at his hand, the burn of the sword's hilt etched into the flesh._

_“The barbarian chick?” They ask, that person that's everything like him but so different, “Yeah, she's _definitely_ your type.” _

_Beau squawks, batting him-- _them_ \--the figure-- Morrígan-- on the shoulder. _

_“She told you to stop talking within the first five minutes of meeting you and I appreciate her immensely for that,” they continue, flicking Beau on the forehead and laughing._

_“Hey! She told you to shut the fuck up too.” Beau says and even with the bite behind it she sounds so different from anything he remembers, she sounds lighter, softer._

_“I didn't say I wasn't a fan of it.”_

_Beau huffs, crossing her arms, “I call dibs though.”_

_“You can't just call dibs on a person.”_

_“Okay, well I did so,” she shrugs, smirking and Morrígan just rolls their eyes._

_“Fine, I prefer the whole aesthetic Uk’atoa’s new boy has going for him anyways.”_

_“Tall, green, and accented?”_

_“Yup.”_

_“In that case did you hear about…” Molly loses the rest of that sentence because there's a figure behind them._

_A hooded one, one that stands out amongst the faded silhouettes that have started milling about the halls. They don't shift or waver, their edges solid and tangible and he watches them--it-- that thing reach out to him-- to them-- to that mirror image of himself beside a Beau that isn't scarred and weathered with time. Its fingers flickering into pustuled scales, to talons, to dark skin, to scattering gnats and melting poison. He can only watch, frozen and fracturing, as a talon presses into the small of their back and _slides_ through. _

_There's the tearing of steel, of onyx, of obsidian and a brand of cold that rips through his sternum in time with the intrusion but Morrígan does not flinch where he is sent gasping and choking, scrabbling at the invading bite of whatever is lodged in his chest. He looks down, the marble of the halls turned to sundered granite and dirt, bloodied and splattered with gold and crimson and ebony. The familiar glint of the God Killer protruding from him, trails of liquid promise framing it and rivering down the blade, towards the hilt and a hand-- a blue hand, nails blackened and cracked, skin leathery and coated in dried blood of all shades, smothered in faded markings, ink, that twists like barbed wire and teeth. Far too large for the blade but holding it firm where it's stuck inside of him. The pommel embedded with amethyst jewels, unblinking _eyes_ , the raven dipped in living, dripping gold from its parted beak. He coughs, a frantic question on his lips even as the crawl of poison marches its way up the column of his neck and spiders outwards from the blade. _

_“I'm impressed,” a voice rumbles in a slow drawl and he rolls his eyes up to grinning smatters of metal trapped between sharpened white, cracked lips pulled around tusks tinted yellow with age and neglect, “You almost had me fooled.”_

_His feet leave the ground, the only thing holding him up the scimitar slotted through his torso and he whines, low and desperate, fingers curled around the obsidian and pulling weakly at it._

_“You almost had all of us fooled,” The voice continues, barrel deep, drawling, and resonating under his ribs, bloodied eyes empty and hardened where they stare into him, “But I know you, Morrígan.”_

_The stars are falling overhead, cascading into meteors and a shower of white light and the moon-- that moon, that single orb, that _anomaly_ , hangs above it all and illuminates him in silver, sickly, hell-fire. _

_“You've always been weak.”_

_The inching creep of sickness saps his limbs, head lolling and hands falling slack where they've cut themselves on the scimitar and all he can see is a storm overhead. Clouds that pulse with a noxious yellow-green and ring that orb, that watchful hanging thing that glares down at where he's crumpled to the earth. Gold bleeds from him in a seep of precious potential and he can hear the slow drag of a blade through the earth, the shouts of others, the scattering clatter of sundered armor and bursts of light at the corners of his fading vision. There's a searing ring around his wrist, a promise forgotten, and he stares up at that blight of impossible off-white amongst the chaos until that too fades away into ruin._

_It's an infinity of silence, an infinity of time, an infinity of suspension engulfed by the dark--endless, vacant _empty_ \-- ever empty. And then there's a hand from the folded sheets of gray, from under the arcs of forked tongues of light. He reaches out for it, twines it with his, and it _pulls_ -_

__

He jolts, hand leaping to his throat because there's something caught in it and his skin _burns_. His other hand is trapped under someone else's, fingers tangled with theirs and it thrums like light and fire. A low whine slips out amongst the water bunched in his lungs, pressing in all around him, suffocating, pushing on his chest and his skull, ears popping from the pressure. A hand, green and blurry, brushes his forehead and suddenly there's the fizzle of energy snapping over him. He exhales that uneasy sensation of liquid in his chest, eyes no longer near to popping and liquifying in their sockets. 

“What the fuck hit me?” he groans, kneading at his forehead, blinking, vision swimming and burning. 

He stills when there's blue and blue and _more_ blue, framed by pale skin and a mess of auburn right above him. He startles when those blues blink, go distant, and roll back; Caleb toppling to the side with them and the hand that held his own falling limp and all of the warmth slipping away with it. 

“Caleb!” Nott yells out of his immediate line of sight and he's sitting up, reaching for the god to try and help when hands snatch his own. 

He looks over to Jester and she shakes her head, pointedly keeping a firm grip on him and his brow furrows. 

“Don't want to risk any interference,” is all she cryptically supplies him with. 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Jester frowns, like he should know.

“You're opposing auras, his could react negatively now that he's been overworked.”

“But why is he-?”

“You got vored by the fucking kraken, idiot,” Beau barks, leaning against her staff and eyeing him. 

“But honestly, with that amount of time the damage shouldn't have been that severe…” Fjord muses to himself, quiet enough Molly nearly misses it, rubbing his jaw and looking at the slumped corpse that's been hacked to ribbons and a wound in its side is spilling out all manner of unsettling imagery.

Molly grimaces, looking down at his ruined clothes. 

“I can fix those up,” Jester touches the coat and it starts to mend back together in a conscious weave of thread.

She moves onto the rest of the ruined garments until its just his boots and then all of a sudden he's back to tip top shape. But Caleb _isn't_ and he looks over to see Nott has pillowed the god's head in her lap, smoothing back his hair with a shaking hand. 

“Will he be okay?” He ventures but Nott just scowls, ears pressing flatter and avoiding his eyes. 

“Just give him a sec,” Jester answers for the silent goblin who's grinding her teeth, a fury snapping in her eyes as she threads her fingers through Caleb's hair.

There's wounds torn across him, pockmarked acid burns and large gaping tears that look like teeth dug into him. Caleb’s clothes quickly staining a harrowing gold that drifts into the water. Shivers wracking him, forehead creased and face drawn, the frantic movement of his eyes behind closed lids is far too noticeable and Molly watches, quietly horrified. The injuries are slowly knitting themselves shut, but it's far too slow and the way there's calcium white tips poking through the ends of his fingers has him near to gagging. 

He's seen violent things, bloody fucked up scenes that turned his stomach, but this is worse… because he knows those are _his_ and that Caleb chose to trade them onto himself somehow. His attention drifts to the large stabbing wounds spanning from shoulder to ribs in the slow beginning of a half circle and he shudders, tearing his eyes away from the sight. Instead he stares at the new flesh of his fingers, the usual mauve tainted by just the slightest hint of a lingering shimmer. He doesn't remember much before it went black, before he saw whatever all of that was, the design of the hilt still embedded in his palm despite the disappearance of the rest of his injuries and he rubs at the raw flesh with a furrowed brow. There's no answering weep of gold from the eye marking in the center of his palm and his head isn't pounding or fogged over like it usually is after a weird or unpleasant dream. And he _remembers_ it. He remembers that face and the scimitar and the sky and--

The glint of silver catches his attention and he peers over at the fallen god. He's not sure what he's looking at until he realizes there's no familiar wrap of carmine around pale skin. It's just a spiral of sinister runes, large carving marks that glimmer like steel and dripping fangs. He's seen some of them before.

Bond, Energy, Need, Consume, Gift, God, Man, Give, **_Obey_. **

And many more he's not even sure still exist in this age, all an endless alphabet that form a poem he doesn't know the words to. The only other place he's seen vaguely similar runes (most of them bond and loyalty related) are the ones that run down a particular goddess’ spine, plain dark ink amongst tanned skin and mingled with scars. He knows there's a mirror set as well, hidden beneath dark crackling armor and nestled against deathly pale skin. But those runes are far less ominous, far less binding, more symbolic, a _promise_ , and less like a shackle snaked around a freckled arm. 

“Healing other gods is more of Pike's thing,” Nott mutters, shattering the living quiet, “It's not really meant for him to do…” She huffs, smoothing a hand over Caleb's cheek, thumb brushing over the freckled skin, “That's why I kept him away from you people.” 

“Nott…” Yasha tries, boots shifting in the silt as she takes a step towards her. 

Nott just curls further into herself, shifting so she's shielding Caleb from them the best she can, “This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't invited him along.” 

“Now wait a minut-”

“ _No_ ,” Nott barks, a spark of flames dancing along the finger she jabs at Fjord, her eyes narrowed dangerously in a warning, “You just had to extend your stupid offer while we were there, you could have just waited for us to leave,” Her eyes dart from Yasha and Fjord and to everyone before settling on him, her lips pulled into a distraught frown, “What's your endgame here? Why bring us along?” 

Yasha shifts, the sound of the armor muffled by the water but her unease is all too prominent. Molly can't help the way his tail shifts closer, ducking his head and inspecting the sand rather than the distrust and weariness on Nott’s face.

“There's no end game here, Nott,” Yasha says, her voice softer than anything Molly's heard before, “I just realized we had been neglecting you all… ignoring you...and I thought I could ask the others to help get you both more involved. I would ask Caduceus too but it's too far from his season for him to be comfortable I think.” 

Nott shakes her head, a wry laugh coloring her speech, “Well if this is what being involved entails I don't want any part of it.”

“Look, I'm sorry-” 

“No,” she bites out again, shutting down Fjord's continued attempts, “ _You're_ the one who asked him if he wanted to join as the healer when he was never meant to be one, not for you people at least. You don't get to apologize here.”

Well that's not fair.

“You can't just--”

“And you!” She whirls on him and he recoils, protests dying in his throat, eyes widened at the fury snapping in hers, “Reckless, stupid idiot! He can protect himself!”

She removes her cloak with shaking fingers, the one bled through with stars and midnight on the inside, takes a moment to carefully pillow it under Caleb's head before getting to her feet and stalking towards him. Fury snapping back into her steps, the sand melting beneath her feet into puddles of superheated glass that shatter once water swamps them. He takes a step back and then another but she's quick to close the gap, fingers curled and ignited at her sides. 

“He doesn't need some purple oaf hovering over his shoulder every waking hour all because you have some stupid, _childish_ infatuation with him,” she says, glaring up at him, all three feet of flame and maternal fury and he realizes in that moment she could probably kill him if she really wanted to. 

But she's also a _hypocrite_ and he has a big mouth that doesn't know how to stop and so he lets it do what it does best. He bites back. 

”That's rich coming from you all things considered.” 

Her lip curls, the gold flaring in her eyes, a tremble in her frame that's not just anger but something deeper. 

“He's _my_ boy,” she jabs him in the thigh and he admittedly flinches at the flare of heat from her hand, “Not yours. _I_ protect him, not you,” she grimaces, glancing back over her shoulder at the still prone god. 

“Nott, just--” 

“He's _not_ your tool.”

Yasha stiffens, Beau hisses in a sharp breath, and Fjord blanches while Jester's light flickers beside him. Molly just grimaces, glancing back to the silver runes and wishing he knew more. 

“He's already been used as one before, he doesn't need to be again,” she continues, arms crossed and turning away from them. 

“We never wanted to use him as a tool,” Yasha tries but Nott just whirls back on her with a low growl.

“The second we're back on that surface it's going back to how it was before. Me keeping him away from you lot.” 

“You can't just make that decision for him,” he says and he's ashamed to admit his voice wobbles at the end because he just got him and now she's two steps from taking him away.

She hesitates, brow furrowing, teeth grit and ears pressed back, “Then I'll explain it to him and _he_ can make that decision for himself.” 

“That doesn't seem fair to him though.” 

“And toting him around like some life support system does?” 

“That wasn't the intent- just--,” Molly sighs, kneading at his temples and glancing at the still prone Caleb, “ Look, none of us intended to get hurt, nor could we have predicted how severely, and I'm bloody sorry about that, okay?”

Nott just sneers, lip curling, “Can't you use that little gift of yours to see how things’ll turn out? That things _always_ go ass up eventually for you, Morríga--” 

She freezes, going rigid when she realizes what name nearly slipped out. 

Molly frowns, avoiding her wide eyes and looking back at the sand beneath him because that's safer than the immediate regret there.

“Molly, I-” 

He smiles far too easily, looking back up at her, and it feels like biting into a lemon, a particularly icy one, and holding it in between his clenched teeth for all the strain it puts on him not to drop it. 

“It's fine,” he shrugs, crossing his arms and telling himself he's not doing it to look smaller, “Honest mistake.” 

It always makes him wonder how long they knew him before. Nott had only spoken spitefully of them, of that Morrígan that pursued Caleb relentlessly. But sometimes, like now, they'll insert the name like they're in the midst of reprimanding a colleague, an acquaintance, even a friend. 

He wonders if they consider that other person, even with all the things they did, more of a friend than him sometimes. 

“Molly,” Beau places a careful hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off. 

Caleb still isn't awake but the wounds are gone, the writhing from earlier settled into even breathing and he knows he might not want the runes visible. The dull strike of red amongst the cascade of silt is easy to spot and he heads for it, ignoring the settling hush behind him and the way it's gone awfully, terribly quiet despite the continuous hum of the ocean around them. He relinquishes the tattered strip of fabric from its temporary rest, the poor thing tattered and full of holes. He doesn't share Jester's gift and it takes a meticulous amount of maneuvering not to have it tearing into pieces as he carries it over to her. She takes it with reverent fingers, delicately laying it across her palms and glancing up to him, softened chips of amethyst bled through with sunlight but lacking all their usual laughter. He nods towards Caleb and he can see she understands when she closes her fingers around the strip and gets to work mending it. 

He continues his way across the sea bed, the faint light refracting from above and diffusing across the silt and the sand in the faint dance and glitter of suspended luminescence. The sundered marble tiles cracked and useless, the once path tossed and strewn out along the sea bed in an impromptu graveyard and the flicker of metal catches his eye amongst the standing tombstones of veined slate. The scimitar is still embedded in the sand where it fell, the rubies in the hilt glimmering, the raven’s beak pointed towards the sky, reaching for that sun above an impossible stretch of water. He glances at the hilt design burned into his hand, hesitates for a moment too long. The image of a parallel weapon, one with amethysts and running him through is a sting across his sternum that creeps up his neck. Molly shakes his head, snatches up the scimitar and returns it to its scabbard where it clicks against the guard with a ringing finality.

He thinks there's a name tied to that face stuck in his head but it fizzles out at the tip of his tongue. That grinning god, that betrayer, a fiend in every sense of the word except for the fact that Molly knows fiends, he was _raised_ by them, and that _thing_ was no fiend. 

It was a monster.

\-------------//-----------

_There's charcoal smudged on his fingers, dark and harsh against his skin, but not unwelcome. The roughened pull of it across the paper is always calming, the sensation of it, the gritty visceral and unexplainable primalness to drawing with the burnt vine. There's a primitive ingrained satisfaction to using something so simple to make something so complex and inarticulate. And he knows there's caves somewhere, filled with those age old renderings of beasts and gods that the mortals couldn't comprehend or name with the written word yet. Pictures always make things easier to understand anyways, it makes them tangible, it makes them real. It preserves them even when they became lost to time and the ruins of forgotten civilizations._

_He glances up and she's still there, framed by sunlight and the gentle sway of a meadow, pouring over the book in her lap, ink to one side and another tome to the other as she diligently transcribes the newest spell she's been working on. Her eyes flick up for a moment and she smiles and it's all kinds of sunlight._

_“Are you drawing me again?”_

_He pauses, going to close the book. He knows he's supposed to be studying alongside her, that she comes out here for a quiet place to work on her studies and to help him as well because he had asked her. And Nott doesn't ever need to know that he isn't working on tilling the fields like he's supposed to. Or that he's shirked his duties many times before because of Astrid._

_“Nein.. I-”_

_“Show me,” She extends her hand, eyes soft, liquid pewter and her smile sincere, nothing malicious to any part of her._

_He passes it over, avoiding her eyes, ears burning and a nervous flutter in his chest as always._

_“You always make me look better than I really am, Cay,” She laughs, an amused little thing that only makes his neck flare hotter, ears burning._

_He doesn't. He knows that's exactly how she looks because he can recall the image in his head perfectly without fail. Rendering it is nearly effortless because it's already there, he just has to translate it down. A part of him is never satisfied with the intangible nature of memories, no matter how infallible his may be. Because he knows she won't live forever and like those drawings trapped on the stone walls of ancient caverns he wants to preserve some part of her in these pages._

_“I just draw how I see you.”_

_“Well I'm flattered,” She passes it back and he collects it, fingers brushing hers and she's always been a caress of stinging ice and a cool warmth, like the bite of mint against him._

_She goes back to her work for a moment, and he just watches, content, quiet, fine with just observing her because she's a mere blip in his existence. A few moments of silence are nothing in the grand scheme of things and he'll take any moment with her he can get because before he knows it she'll be slipping through his fingers and lost to a realm he can't ever visit._

_She frowns, glancing at the sun and he knows she's reading its position, determining what time it is and whether she needs to return. It's only happened a handful of times but a man had come searching for her, found them on the edges of the forest, in the meadow that sits beside the woods and Caleb had been afraid because no mortal should be able to accidentally stumble anywhere close to the Savalier Woods. Astrid had explained it was just Eodwulf and that he used Divination magic to find her. It didn't alleviate his fears, because the man had just looked at him and seemed all too intrigued by what he was, asking many questions that Caleb was reluctant to answer for anyone besides Astrid._

_He wonders if Eodwulf still worries after her and if that has her carefully watching the sun. She's never said much about her teacher… but he knows he is a harsh one. He hasn't missed the brand pressed into the back of her neck, usually hidden by her hair but all too visible when she twists it up, distracted by her work and annoyed by the way the wind tugs at it. He hasn't missed the scars, new and old ones, overlapping as the years have gone on._

_“Is Eodwulf still bothering you about coming out here so frequently?”_

_“Hmm?” She hums, finishing a rune with the scratch of the quill before shaking her head and frowning, “Oh, oh no, he's… We've come to a mutual agreement.”_

_“That's good,” He mutters, reopening his own tome to a new page, picking up the scroll she handed him and reading it over._

_He's halfway through his notes on the slow spell when he hears her sigh, the clap of a book snapping shut furrowing his brow._

_“Caleb?”_

_He glances up to her, pausing his own work, “Ja?”_

_“I…,” she trails off, running her fingers along the edges of the quill, avoiding his eyes, “I might need your help with something.”_

_“With what?”_

_“Well… it's not me,” She admits, looking off in the direction of the town he knows lies at the foot of the meadow, “It's the man I study under… he--,” She bites her lip, worrying at it and avoiding his eyes and he thinks she looks far too solemn and withdrawn compared to her usual sureified confidence._

_“His wife is sick and I don't think it's a natural borne illness. It feels more like a curse, corruption maybe... like the ones you were telling me about,” She smiles, small and missing the usual shine of teeth, “I was wondering if you would be able to come to town,” Pewter eyes finally meet his and there's something conflicted there, “With me, I mean, and at least talk to him, see if there's anything you can do.”_

_“I don't think…”_

_“You'd be back before Nott even knew you were there, I promise.”_

_He muses with the petals of one of the flowers, a vibrant and bleeding red dahlia, “You promise?”_

_“I would never lie to you, Cay.”_

_He knows she wouldn't._

_“Okay,” He nods, a small smile on his face, “Ja... I'll go.”_

__

 

Caleb blinks, shaking his head, wincing at the light and there's someone's face hovering just above his line of sight, blurred and ringed by a halo of sunlight that scatters into cerulean around them. 

“Astrid?”

“No, my name is Jester, silly,” She boops him on the nose and he can see blue skin now and even deeper sapphire hair with small curled horns. 

She's not Astrid. Astrid died a long time ago.

“You okay?” The gruff voice of Beau draws his attention and he leans up on his elbows, heart jerking when he slides in the sand. 

“Ja, ja, gut, wunderbar…” He trails off, drawing his arm to his chest, worried that they'll see them because the last concrete thing he remembers is the red sliding off of him and revealing those damning glyphs. 

He blinks when he looks down and sees the wraps are good as new and wound back around them though.

“Wha-?” He barely manages to get the question out before something is barreling into him, knocking him back into the sand. 

The wiggle of green, gold pierced ears sloping from dark hair and the small form gives it away as Nott and he manages to sit back up, holding her to his chest, her fingers digging into the back of his shirt like he might disappear. 

“Nott, I'm okay,” he says in lieu of anything else, head still reeling and trying to connect the dots. 

“Don't do that again,” she whispers into his shoulder and he holds her closer because he knows he probably scared her, that he frightened her. That all she fears sometimes is being alone again and he's never done well to soothe that constant worry in her. 

“I'm okay,” He breathes again, quieter, murmuring it into the water and warily eyeing the gathered gods around him. 

Molly isn't among them, he's further off, back turned to their little gathering and he can make out that same pattern on the coat. Three ravens, endlessly circling, taking up the back panel just at his shoulder blades. The god turns and and there's a thousand different things warring under his sternum as he approaches. Relief that he's okay, anger that he put himself in danger in the first place… but mostly confusion. 

“Why did you drop the sword?” He asks once Molly's close enough, pinning the liquid red eyes with his own, Nott still clinging to him. 

Molly startles, tail curling close to his leg and whipping in a low arc, “It uh… doesn't react well when I do the--,” he waves his hand like that somehow explains everything. 

“React?” he asks, frowning, “It's a weapon, it can't react to anything.” 

“A magical weapon,” Beau clarifies and he huffs because he's not an idiot, he knows it's magic. 

What it's capable of is plain as day. The way it saps life into it in a greedy draw is hard to miss. Or the way Molly uses it to tear holes in reality either.

“It's not meant for him,” Yasha adds, “It’s someone else's blade.”

He frowns, brow furrowed because there's things he's missing here and getting this puzzle from them is reminiscent of pulling teeth, “But you're able to use Kord’s blade?” 

“Our purposes are the same,” she explains, leveling him with a knowing look, “That scimitar was never meant to be used for what could have happened but didn't, nor what changed as a result of knowing.” 

“What was it used for then?” 

“Picking apart the past.” 

“Then what happened to the other blade?” The one that was Morrígan's, the amethyst embedded one he remembers them always having at their side.

“ _Blades._ There were always three,” Molly adds, tapping the hilt of his own with an idle finger, frowning. 

Caleb sighs, resisting the urge to knead at his temples. He _knows_ there's three. He's seen them all before, he knows that the rubies aren't meant for Molly but he never thought there would be consequences to it. None of the three ever explained what the blades were capable of or how much of themselves were tied to them. 

“They've been lost for a long time now,” Yasha says, crossing her arms, glancing back to Molly who's turned his gaze to his feet and the shift of sand underfoot. 

“I'm pretty sure Loren--”

“Shhh, don't say his name,” Jester claps a hand over Beau's mouth, cutting her off and the goddess bats it away with a growl. 

“Fuck off Jester I can say whatever I want.” 

Caleb understands her superstition. Names have power. True names even more so. And Lorenzo’s isn't one any of them want to utter aloud anytime soon. 

“Uh, guys, I think I found where they might've been staying besides the palace,” Fjord is yards ahead of them, voice carrying through the water easily and Caleb is sure it has something to do with his influence over it.

The god is stopped at the edge of the shelf and peering down into the gloom. Caleb manages to get his feet under him in the shifting sand, Nott all but peeling herself off of him but still clinging onto his hand and he lets her maintain that connection. Molly and Beau join Fjord at the cliff edge before the others and he trails behind Yasha and Jester. 

“We should go,” Nott says, tugging his hand.

The others have all caught up with Fjord and it's just him and Nott... and a decision. 

“They might still need help.”

“We don't owe them anything, Caleb. What have they ever done for us?” She hisses, low and nervous, eyeing the water around them and the others making their way down the shelf. 

“Some of them have done a lot for me…” 

They found him when they didn't even know anything about his existence beyond what he was brought into this pantheon to do. Beau carried him, Pike healed him, Yasha organized the search and the rescue… Molly gave him more freedom than he's had in the past few decades and he wants to hold onto that, selfishly and irrevocably.

Nott huffs, dropping his hand and the absence of it is a loss of flame and warmth, “Fine... okay, let's go.” 

The edge of the shelf is a sudden drop off into a sprawling black and he eyes it warily, Nott nervously wringing her hands beside him and the others already having scaled the rock face to an outcropping a few meters down. He can just make out Molly and Beau in the dark, peering up at them from below and waiting. He really wishes they could just do what they did before and transport them down with them but he has the distinct feeling this is somehow amusing to them. 

Nott is the first to clamber over the edge, deft fingers finding footholds and spidering her way down nearly effortlessly. Caleb frowns, narrowing his eyes at the two spots of color below. He's not amused by any of this but he'll follow Nott because he doesn't trust them to keep her safe just yet.

The first few feet are fine, effortless and that odd sense of gravity even underwater is particularly hampering now considering how easy it would be to do this with even an ounce of buoyancy. His foot slips, rocks tumbling off the small foothold and he manages to cling onto the cliff face with white knuckled fingers. He's going to have some words for those two once he makes it down this infernal--

The ledge gives and he only has a second to process the brief suspension before he's falling. He swipes at the roughened surface, fingers scrabbling for purchase and instead he gets a jagged piece of stone embedded in his hand for his efforts. There's a few moments of stomach dropping free fall through water which should be impossible but Fjord just had to do whatever mumbo-jumbo-bullshit and Beau and Molly couldn't just _bamf_ him and Nott down the cliff because apparently they're twelve year old _arschlochs_ and-- 

He collides with arms, someone catching him under his knees and his back in a perfect bridal carry and he blinks owlishly. The surprise turns into exasperation and the thinnest vein of embarrassment when he realizes how colorful the coat of the person holding him is. There's the muffled snickers of Beau off to the side and he can't help the scowl on his face or the way his ears color at the turn of events.

“You're both assholes,” he bites out, squirming out of the god's arms and regretting what he said up top in these people's defense.

“We know,” Molly just smirks, righting him and thankfully backing off because Caleb can feel his neck and it's definitely on all kinds of fire alongside his face. 

“Okay, time to go you two,” Beau claps Molly on the back and heads inside the maw of the strange cavern they've managed to find. 

“After you,” Molly sweeps his hand in a grand gesture, bowing at his waist and Caleb nearly rolls his eyes at the god's antics but he's still trying to figure out if him and Beau planned on him having shit luck on that scale down the rock face or not. 

Nott brushes by Molly, snatching his hand and tugging him past the surprised god and into the cavern. Jester greets him just inside the dark and he startles back at her sudden appearance from the gloom, a bright, luminescent scallop already being pushed into his free hand. 

“Ah, danke,” He stutters and she just beams. 

“No problem Cay-leb,” She bops him on the nose again before twirling back around and all but skipping down the tunnel and it's all reminiscent of another tiefling goddess he hasn't spoken to in centuries and there's the smallest pang of loss buried somewhere under everything else. 

There's the croppings of errant sea life, plant matter that he's never heard of before that shimmer and glisten under the light from the shell. And this tunnel is massive, big enough for a kraken to maneuver down at least, perhaps a tad smaller than the actual size of the beasts they managed to take down but he's sure they could squeeze in somehow. The tunnel winds on for some time, Molly trailing behind him and Nott and Caleb glances back to the other god but he's busy inspecting the strange carvings lining the ceiling, his tail lashing. 

“Do you recognize any of it?” He asks, Nott not protesting too much when he drops her grip, the goddess moving on to catch up with Jester with a brief glance over her shoulder at him that he returns with a nod. 

Molly just laughs, “No, this isn't anything I've ever seen before.”

“Maybe there's more further in.” 

“Guess we'll find out,” Molly smirks, the light from the shell catching in his teeth and washing lavender in a soft pearlescent glow. 

Caleb nervously runs his thumb over the shell, unsure how to broach the subject on his mind but he needs to at least say something. 

“Thank you… for back there.” 

“You're welcom--”

“Even if you were a self sacrificing idiot about it,” Caleb cuts him off before he can finish. 

“Okay, but to be fair I--”

“You could have just shouted a warning at me. I'm not deaf. And I have legs that function you know,” he continues, leveling Molly with a hard stare that the other glances away from before returning a sly smile. 

“According to that abysmal climb down the shelf I would say otherwise.” 

Caleb sighs, “I blame you and Beau for that.” 

“I can't control rocks.” 

“Mhm,” he nods, fingers running idly over the grooves in the scallop. 

“Okay fine. We had bets on whether you'd fall or not.” 

“And who won?” 

“She did.” 

“So you had _some_ faith in me?” He asks with an amused chuckle.

“You're a hippy dippy forest god after all, figured a little rock climbing would be easy for ya,” Molly grins, waving a hand in the air.

“Well there's not a whole lot of cliffs to climb in the woods.” 

Molly shrugs, “Hey, you know, I may be down a few gold but I got to watch you fall _and_ catch you so I think it's a win.” 

“Some would be reluctant to call that a win.” 

“You saying you didn't like being cradled in my arms, Caleb?” Molly mock pouts, turning to him with brows drawn into a sad frown. 

“I can think of a few other things I would rather be doing,” he deadpans. 

Molly clutches his chest, rocking back on his heels and hissing in a sharp breath, all with a shit eating grin, “Oo, that stings, _mon cherie_.” 

“Need me to heal that too?” he side eyes Molly, a knowing tilt to his lips.

“Ha-ha, hilarious," Molly waves a hand, pursing his lips, "Don't be a smart ass.” 

“Why, whatever do you mean, Mr. Mollymauk?” 

“Hey, dorktards, you two done being dumb out here yet?” Beau peers around the entryway Molly and him have finally managed to reach. 

It's simple, nothing too elaborate but it's definitely man-made. The carvings from the ceiling snake down and into the towering archway, swirling into runes and designs. He recognizes the ones that roughly translate to ‘stay out’ and he glances to Molly with a raised brow that the other god returns with a shrug. 

“We found some weird shit, so when you two finally decide to join us let me know,” She ducks back inside, the light she held from Jester fading with her into inky midnight. 

“Let's go see what a kraken lair looks like I guess,” Molly sighs and there's a weariness to his posture Caleb didn't notice before. 

“After you,” Caleb repeats the gesture Molly made outside the cavern, the small hint of a smirk on his face at the way the god narrows his eyes at him. 

“Now you're just mocking me,” Molly crosses his arms, tail flicking idly and head tilting. 

“Am I?” He asks, head tilting to mirror him. 

“Don't be cute with me, _Mr. Caleb_ ,” Molly drags out, turning and stepping past the threshold, Caleb follows on his heels, holding the shell higher. 

“I'm--” his voice dies halfway out because the room he finds himself in is nothing he could have ever anticipated. 

He wants to stumble back, leave the second he sees it just sitting there, the others meandering around it like it isn't everything it could ever be. 

“Who would know about any of this?” Beau asks and he wonders how long they've just been milling about the space with the vestiges of blood embedded in the stone beneath their feet. 

How long they've been talking and walking and breathing in water tainted by death. 

“Avantika,” Fjord mutters, idly rubbing at the scar lining his eye and down his jaw, “Maybe Sabien…” He trails off, fingers tracing over the eyes etched into the cavern wall, “I heard about this but I came in when it all got covered up and I can't-- I can't really remember anything like this.” 

“None of you recognise that?” Caleb asks, the small tremor to his voice impossible to hide.

“And you do?” Beau asks skeptically.

He recognizes a lot of things about this. The spiraled runes ringing the cavern floor, the substance dried inside the grooves, the way they snake towards an empty obelisk, a stone altar, stained with the same splash of color sunken into the stone. Ikithon may not have had anything as elaborate as an altar table-- he didn't need one-- but Caleb remembers kneeling in a similar spiral of etched markings, crimson splattering the floor and a thread of gold woven between his fingers--

“Ja,” he finally manages, feet dragging him towards it, “It's a sacrifice table… an old one,” he numbly steps over the stone, bare feet stark against the carmine stained pewter, “I've seen-- I mean I've taken notes on it--these tables, but I know this symbol. It means ‘Potential’,” he moves his hand to the next one, ignoring the way it tremors, “This one is ‘Consume’... and ah,” He squints, fingers trailing over the rust stained one in the center of the table, the remains of its last meal stuck within the grooves, “Grow.”

“Someone was _feeding_ them?” Jester asks, voice high and thready. 

“Fuck," Fjord hisses. 

“Where the fuck did you take notes on something like a pre-Calamity sacrifice altar?” Beau asks, eyeing him. 

“I have… resources,” he shifts, barely resisting the urge to pull his arm close to his chest and hide it with his other. 

He's pretty sure they never figured out what Ikithon was doing. They never found the room after all. They thought the runes on his arm were just to bind him to the mortal but there's so much more to them-- that even with all their knowledge and their age they still don't know. And maybe it's better they don't. 

“Uh-huh.” Beau drawls, eyeing him skeptically, “Never seen you around the halls of the Cobalt Soul or Ioun's place for that matter so needless to say I'm a little fucking curious.”

“You trying to accuse him of something?” Nott asks, a sharp warning bite to her words. 

“No,” Beau sneers, “What the fuck could he even do anyways? I don't think he could hurt a fly.” 

She doesn't know what he's capable of. What he's done. 

“Beau,” Yasha warns, a rumble in the water. 

“What come on, you're all thinking it,” she continues, throwing her arms up and Caleb flinches. 

“No, no we're not,” Molly says, tail whipping and eyes narrowing at her.

“Then why hand him the dagger at the beginning, huh?” Beau turns to Fjord who glances at the cavern floor and rubs the back of his neck, “See even you're worried about him getting involved in this cause he's not meant for fighting.”

“You can't just tell people what they're meant for. Don't be a dick,” Molly says, taking a step towards Beau. 

“Being a dick is kinda my thing,” She bites back, taking an answering step towards him, fists clenched at her side. 

“Okay, well do it somewhere else.”

“How about _no_.” 

Caleb is tired of these people squabbling around him like he isn't even here. He pushes past Molly, inserts himself into the margin of space left between the two and holds out his hand, leveling Beauregard with a hard stare. 

“Can I see your staff?” 

“Uh,” She eyes him up and down, “Buy me a few drinks first, bud.” 

He just deadpans, raising a brow and waiting for her to relinquish it.

“Fine,” she growls, all but slamming it into his open palm.

It's some kind of sturdy elm, a thread of life still captured inside of it, dulled and stoppered, laced with a touch of the arcane. He glances up to her, places a hand over the heartwood and pulls at his own thread. The wood sparks and swells, small branches sprouting from the sides, tearing through the blue ribbon adorning it, leaves unfolding from the new growth and withering in the salt laden water. 

“Hey, what the fuck!” she barks and he can't help the small smirk on his face as he hands it back, “Wait don't just leave it all fucked, fix it!” 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he starts, crossing his arms and refusing to take it back even as she shoves it under his nose, “I'm not _meant_ for that, you'll have to find a way to fix it on your own.”

“Yasha!” Beau crows and Caleb can't help the spark of satisfaction at the goddess of judgement reduced to whining like a five year old. 

“Shouldn't of been a dick,” Fjord shrugs. 

“Let me see it you big cry baby,” Molly finally relents, rolling his eyes, and Caleb watches the him take it from the seething goddess. 

The last vestiges of leaves immediately wither and brown, falling into dust in the water but the branches and the sturdier, older, more hearty amounts of growth remain. Molly’s brow furrows and he places a hand exactly where Caleb put his and he can't help but wonder if the god can see it too; the strings of fate. The bark sloughs and falls away, branches cracking and turning blackened, melting into ash and where there was a branch of renewed vigor there's a staff wrapped in tattered blue ribbon. 

Molly goes to hand it over and blinks, Caleb manages to barely snag his arm, Beau grabbing the other as the god sways. 

“Woah there,” Beau says, her bite all but faded with her bark and honestly he's not sure how any of them handle her fluctuating temper. 

“M'fine,” Molly slurs, stumbling and swaying completely into him. 

“Yeah?” Beau asks, releasing Molly's arm when he manages to hold up the full weight of the listing god, one hand wrapped around Molly's waist and the other keeping a grip on the arm now slung over his shoulders. 

He shoots a glare at the goddess but she just waggles her brows and smirks at his predicament. 

“Yeah, yup, I'm- S’all good, I--” Molly blinks, looking at him with the oddest expression, still illuminated by the faint light of the shell still clutched in his hand, “Fuck you're-- you're pretty you know that?” 

Caleb is glad it's dark in this cavern. He shifts his hand so the shell is smothered out because he doesn't need everyone to see how red his face is right now. Out of all the things he expected Molly to say in that moment that definitely wasn't one of them. And he's all too aware of the arm around his shoulders and the god leaned into his side. 

“He's fucked,” Beau snorts, flicking Molly on the cheek. 

“Absolutely trashed,” Jester agrees, poking him and grinning. 

“What's wrong with him?” Caleb asks, trying to readjust the near deadweight draped on him and subtly shift so there isn't the constant humming buzz under his skin from the other. 

“He just needs some liquid gold and rest probably,” Fjord says, hands on his hips and turned back to inspecting the walls

Makes sense.

He's not really sure what kind of toll the whole process takes on someone but it would have been helpful to have at least a small portion of ambrosia for the god when the trade off was complete to ensure this wouldn't happen. But now he's caught keeping Molly up and everytime he glances over at him he swears he can see the slight glimmer of something dusting the god's cheeks and speckling down his neck, hidden amongst the stains of ink in a shifting constellation. 

“Liquid gold makes it sound like something else, Fjord,” Jester giggles and Caleb snaps his attention back to her because that's safer than everything happening right now. 

Fjord sighs, kneading at his temple and waving a hand dismissively, “Look, we'll continue the investigation down here… y'all jus’ get him back and get some ambrosia in him.” 

“I'll take em back,” Beau starts, clapping a hand on Molly's arm.

“Naw, naw I got it just--” Molly fumbles for his scimitar. 

“Probably not a good idea right now,” Caleb manages around the constant humming thread of lavender in his skull. It twists like midnight and where it should feel smothering it doesn't. He's not sure what to with that information other than stand there and try and process it. 

“Oh,” Molly breathes, smiling and blinking at him like he's seeing him for the first time, “Okay.” 

“Come on, you absolute dumb ass,” Beau rolls her eyes, claps a hand on Nott's shoulder and grabs Molly's arm. 

There's the stomach drop-twist and suddenly he's gasping in air instead of water and Nott’s spluttering beside him. Beau just chuckles and goes to grab Molly from him but the sharp yip from down one of the halls startles all of them. Two raven feathered hounds come barreling out into the foyer, nails clicking on the tile, one of them sliding and slipping, nearly crashing into one of the columns before she rights herself and continues towards them. It's Armagh and she eagerly sniffs at all of them, tongue lolling out the side of her maw and nosing at Molly's feet which aren't doing much to keep him upright. Bodv watches from a distance, eyes narrowed and ears pressed back. 

“Come on,” Beau grabs Molly's arm, working to shift the weight of the nearly passed out god but Caleb takes a step back. 

“Actually,” he starts before he can stop himself, “I want to make sure he's okay if that's fine.” 

“Whatever you say,” She drawls, eyeing him, “I'm coming back for your ass later though.” 

Nott eyes him and he levels her with his own look back. She doesn't say anything and he knows it's because she doesn't want to tell him no here, because she doesn't want to be the one to take that freedom away from him. But he doesn't miss the way she frowns and wrings her hands. 

“Please be careful,” is all she says before she takes Beau’s hand and disappears in that familiar puff of smoke. 

He's alone. Well, alone as he can be. With a god draped on him and two hounds staring up at him. 

“Which way is your chambers?” He asks, shaking Molly the smallest bit to try and see if the god is still coherent or not. 

“Oh, uh…,” Molly stumbles over his words and Caleb turns his head enough to see the tips of the god's ears have turned a ruddy russet under the lavender. 

“ _Molly_ ,” he tries again, a desperation bleeding into his voice because that feeling keeps getting stronger and he's not sure if it's welcome or not yet. 

“There's ah… there's’lot to process here jus’ give me a sec,” Molly mumbles, head lolling and horn knocking into Caleb's shoulder. 

Bodv huffs, turning and taking off back down the hall and with limited options Caleb follows on her heels. He's not the strongest god out there and it's starting to get hard to hold Molly up and it's also getting harder to think with the other's aura constantly pushing against his own, mingling with it. 

He's not sure if it's relief or disappointment when he finally makes it to something resembling a bed chamber and sheets and he drops Molly on them. Admittedly not the gentlest treatment but his shoulder hurts and Molly doesn't seem to really care, sprawled on his back and already halfway to unconsciousness. 

There's a chair, a velvet upholstered one pushed up close to a hearth and he grabs it, shoves it closer to the bed and settles in it with a weary sigh. Armagh leaps onto the sheets, curls up beside Molly and noses at the god's side until he reluctantly tangles a hand in the feathers decorating her scruff. Bodv curls up at the foot of the ebony framed bed, eyeing him and occasionally turning her attention to Molly. 

“Thanks,” Molly mumbles through a sigh, “For the… whatever you did back there.”

“No problem,” Caleb mutters, resting his head back against the chair. 

He didn't realize how tired he was until he finally sat down but gods he feels like shit. 

“We killed a kraken,” Molly laughs.

“Yeah… I guess we did,” he says, closing his eyes. 

“Technically two of them.”

“And you got eaten by one,” he smirks and the answering chuckle Molly gives is barely a breath. 

“Let's never do that again,” Molly says after a moment.

“ _Agreed._ ” 

There's silence for a long while after that until all Caleb can hear is deepened breathing from the bed and he finds himself settling back into the chair, shifting to curl up in it, head knocking against the side and then it's a comforting dark highlighted by the last vestiges of lavender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙏 finally finished with this ocean arc that was supposed to take like no time at all and ended up being like 24 k words. now onto some good shit. 🖒


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Tommy  for betaing this chapter and dealing with my incessantly long run on sentences and rampant disregard for grammar conventions. You the real MVP. <3

“Oh, you're still here.”

Caleb startles awake, jolting to his feet, head _reeling_. He tries to stop himself from stumbling backwards, but it’s no use. He falls back into the chair, blinking against the burn of candlelight in his skull, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms and trying to figure out where he is and why his neck hurts. 

“Sleeping in that chair can’t have been very comfortable.” The lilt is familiar, stronger than Molly's. He remembers it being matched by a man -- a fiend with small horns that flickered like fire. 

He rubs at the crick in his neck, cracking one eye open against the onslaught of light to see an outstretched hand. It held a silver goblet, and he trails his fingers up a red and white striped sleeve, up and up to a patient, amused smile. 

“Caleb, right?” 

“ _Ja_ ,” he ventures cautiously, taking the silvered chalice from the fiend and peering at the familiar shift of opaque liquid gold inside. 

Gustav smiles, placing a second goblet on a dark oak side table that's as ornately carved as the rest of the room. “Sorry we didn't get to properly meet before, there were quite a few things happening and it was all a bit hectic.”

Caleb takes a sip from the goblet, the tingle of ambrosia on his tongue not wholly unwelcome, its warmth spreading through his limbs and snapping away the lingering headache. “It's fine.”  

“Gustav Fletching,” The fiend says, extending his hand, lips peeled into a smile that revealed sharpened fangs. 

“Pleased to, ah, meet you...again,” Caleb manages, reluctantly taking Gustav's offered hand. 

It sparks like midnight and hell-fire in the periphery of his awareness. He's all too grateful when Gustav drops his hand, the fiend shaking out his own and grimacing. 

“Quaint,” Gustav mutters, turning his hand over like he might have grown something on it from the contact. “You've got quite the well of power in your touch, Mr. Caleb.” 

He doesn't like the way Gustav frowns as he says it, or the way the fiend keeps looking at the hand he held like it’s irrevocably changed. 

“... _danke_?” 

Gustav turns a tight-lipped smile to him. “Wasn't really a compliment.” 

“Oh,” is all he can manage, lips resting on the chilled rim of the goblet, brows furrowed.  

The fiend crosses his arms, settling back on the edge of the bed where Molly is still, quite loudly, sleeping away. 

“Don't get me wrong, I'm sure up top everyone   _loves_ your gift… but down here it's a bit--” Gustav waves a hand, a similar gesture to one Molly does when he's searching for the right word. “ _Much_.” 

“Some of the people down here don't seem to mind,” He fires back, because he remembers spirits, fiends, beings he doesn't even know the names or origins of inching towards him during his time down here. 

“Mm, I'm sure they don't.” Gustav glances back to the still unconscious Molly. Caleb's brow furrows further.  

“What exactly are you trying to imply?” 

“Frankly,” Gustav leans forward, voice dropping, “You're dangerous.” 

He knows that. He knows what he's potentially capable of. But what he doesn't know is why Gustav thinks that -- how the fiend _knows_ that. 

“How, exactly?” he asks, looking up at Gustav, who just smiles knowingly, as if he knows Caleb’s playing dumb. “You know, if anything, Molly's the dangerous one, he's the one in charge of Deat--” 

“ _Don't,_ ” A hand claps onto the back of the chair above him, Gustav's face inches from him now. He's trapped, staring up into empty voidless eyes that hold knowledge far older than him. “Maybe you don't understand and that's fine. You're both young. But there's things, there's people--” Gustav glances behind himself, looking over his shoulder for a moment before leaning in. “There's people who will _kill_ for what you have.” 

Caleb’s breath is caught in his chest, and he doesn't like the way the fiend is looming over him. He breaks eye contact first, skull buzzing and thoughts skittering, trying to find something to focus on besides the warning suspended in the air.

“And I won't watch him be dragged into danger because he's fascinated by you,” Gustav continues, backing off. Caleb takes a jerky, relieved breath.

“I can't keep him from doing whatever he wants, gods know I've tried.” Gustav kneads at his temple. “But if anything ever happens to him and it has anything to do with you, I won't hesitate to do something about it.” The horns flicker to a dangerous, bleeding red and the fiend glances over to him, smile sharp. Everything about it screams _threat_. “Understand?” 

“Crystal,” he manages, through a sharp inhale.

“Good.” Gustav takes the chalice clutched in Caleb’s fingers, the death grip he had on it breaking easily.  “Now leave.” 

“ _Was_?” He asks, confused, head still reeling as the whiplash from pleasant conversation to threat back to pleasant conversation is hard to quantify.

“Ms. Beauregard is waiting in the foyer for you.” Gustav smiles, still showing sharp pearly fangs and carrying the air of a man who didn't just tell Caleb that people want to kill him because of who he is. 

“Right…” he leverages himself to feet on knees that wobble, inching towards the door, glancing back over his shoulder to see Gustav leaning against the bed once more. 

“Goodbye for now,” the fiend calls with a wave, grin never faltering. “I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon.” 

Caleb nods, words lost on a tongue that won't cooperate, rounding the marble door jamb and glancing down the hall back to the room. He's not leaving yet. He said he would stay to make sure Molly was okay and he hasn't done that yet. 

Beauregard can wait.

\---------//--------

_\--there's a meadow, a sprawling infinite thing, and when he brushes his hands over the petals of wildflowers and through the reeds they don't wither and die under his touch. He looks up at the sound of a voice, the sun haloing a figure at the far side and he smiles at the sight of auburn hair and pale skin and all the things familiar and everything he wishes he could touch and not have crumble under his fingers.  There's that sound again, and he thinks it's a voice, _his_ voice, calling his name from across this expanse of life and bleeding color--_

“Molly.” 

He blinks awake at the hand on his shoulder. Batting it away, he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palms. 

“Fu- wha?” He manages to slur, sitting up, squinting at the candlelight. 

“Drink this.” There's a chalice pushed into his line of sight. He grimaces at it, side-eyeing Gustav standing beside the bed as the fiend patiently waiting for him to accept the offered ambrosia. 

“Fu'off, old man,” he mutters even as he accepts the chilled cup. 

Gustav rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “Don't be a child.” 

Molly takes a drink, the lingering headache and the vestiges of tiredness fading with it. He blinks and shakes his head, eyes darting to the vacant armchair, stomach dropping at how utterly empty it is. He looks back to Gustav who's just watching him, blank obsidian eyes as unreadable as ever, but the small horns are flickering an indigo. 

“Where's Caleb?” He asks, scanning the room while moving to get out of the bed.

Gustav stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder, retrieving the chalice and setting it on the side table. “I sent him off.” 

“Oh.” He can't help the way his face falls at that, the disappointment far more poignant than he expected it to be.

“Don't look so put out. You've known him for what,” Gustav takes a moment to count the days on his hands before holding them up with a raised brow. “A week?” 

Molly does the math in his head, brow furrowed, tail lashing against the sheets. He gives up after a moment-- he's too bloody tired to be doing this. “It's definitely been longer than that.”

It has to have been longer… right? It feels like it's been longer than a week. Gustav isn't the best person to go to calculate mortal time, anyways. 

The fiend hums, everything about him screaming _skeptical_. “And of all those days how many times did you actually interact?” 

“Okay, look, in my defense--”

“You can't get attached to him.” Gustav cuts him off, horns flickering maroon before going back to a concerned purple. 

Molly eyes him, wondering why Gustav’s so ill at ease. “...Why?” 

Gustav doesn't meet his eyes, idly fiddling with the ring on his left hand, the one Molly has never questioned or thought about more than in passing, that's been there since he's been himself. Molly’s never seen its match.“Just… be careful.” 

Sometimes he wonders about Gustav. Who he was before, who he is behind the facade of constantly tired and worked-thin fiend just trying to keep this place from falling apart. The fiend has always been paternal, comforting, quick to answer his questions and give advice where he could. Always wearing a smile and being the entertainer he appears to be, but sometimes, when Gustav doesn't think anyone's looking, he seems sad… lonely, even. And Molly’s pretty sure it has to do with the name that the others won't say; cutting each other off, biting their tongues, quickly changing the subject altogether to avoid it. For all the things he knows about Gustav, there's still some the fiend keeps close to his chest, and has for quite some time. 

And Molly’s never pried because, to be honest, the past is the past. And he doesn't need to know about it if it isn't something Gustav or anyone else wants to share. He's certainly not looking to figure out what his own past looks like anytime soon. He doesn't want to know all the things Morrígan did. 

“I can handle myself, you know.” He settles on that as his only defense, eyeing the fiend. 

Gustav raises a brow. 

“That was one time.” 

The brow hikes higher.

“Okay, twice.”

Gustab sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. “There are powerful people that would do anything to get their hands on life, Molly.”

“All the more reason to stick around him,” Molly nods, gesturing up towards all the things that lie above this realm. “I can keep him safe.” 

Gustav chuckles and Molly frowns, crossing his arms. 

Gustav smiles in that way that means Molly isn't fully grasping the picture, and the fiend full well knows it. “If you think that boy needs any protecting, you're more lost on him than I thought.” 

“I mean no offense, but he's _Spring_.” He feels like an ass for saying it, but he can't take it back. 

Gustav frowns, jabbing a finger at him. “Don't underestimate the seasons, _that_ one most of all.” The fiend waves his hand, glancing up. “They keep time, they keep order, they are the ultimate balance, Molly.” Gustav levels him with a hard look. “Caleb only knows a fraction of his… _potential_ , but others won't make the same mistake.”

“Who?” 

“I-” Gustav glances to the left, voice dropping, fingers wringing at his left wrist. “Vecna's people.” 

“They're all dead.” 

Gustave raises a brow. “Are they?” 

“Fine, whatever,” Molly says, waving his hand dismissively, because honestly, he really doesn't want to think about this right now. “I'll be careful, old man.” 

“Don't call me old.” 

“Whatever you say, gramps.” Molly smirks and the fiend gives his own exasperated grimace before turning to a blank leather tome set beside the relinquished chalice, spindly fingers collecting it and holding it out to Molly.

“What is it?” He asks, taking it, feeling the slight thrum of distant magic under his fingertips. It feels old, it feels nearly ancient, like life was breathed into its bindings long ago and kept preserved between the pages. 

“A ledger keeper.” 

Molly raises a brow, cracking it open to a blank page and frowning. “For?” 

“Souls.” 

Oh, well... That's new. And as he thumbs through the oddly blank book he can't help the worry growing inside him. 

“Did you ever find the lost ones?” Molly asks, switching to the low rumbling dialects of fiendish, the infernal language settling oddly on his lips. He idly runs a finger over the smallest imperfection in the parchment. A small blip of dark ink that mars the otherwise perfect surface. 

“No.” Gustav sighs, switching to the hidden language in kind, his eyes darting to the necklace resting over Molly's sternum. “But we at least got Keyleth to fix the seal.” 

“So it's fine, then?” He switches back out, Common is more pleasant on the tongue anyways. 

“Yes.” Gustav nods, horns flickering that deep indigo before settling on a low blue. 

“So…” Molly holds up the tome, raising a brow. “Why the book?” 

“It's for you.” 

“Oh..kay?” 

“You're going to do Macha's old job.” 

Molly blinks, fingers spasming against the worn leather cover, eyes skittering over it for a name or an indication it belonged to her. He finds nothing. He looks back up to Gustav, brow pinched. “Why?” 

The fiend settles back in the chair, head tipping back against the cushioned velvet, lips pressed into a hard line and frame wracked with a soul-deep weariness. “I don't trust souls to find their way down here safely anymore, so we're going back to the old fashioned ways. At least for the more powerful ones.”

They have people for that. Specific people. People who _aren't_ him. “And what exactly does that entail?” 

Gustav reaches into his flashy tail coat without looking, pulling free a burgundy velvet bag that shifts with the sound of metal and what has to be coins. He holds it out and Molly accepts it, surprised by how light it is despite what is probably inside. 

“One drachma for each soul on the list, get them to to hold it in their palm.” Gustav taps the page and ink bleeds to life on the parchment. Molly flips through it again and there's rows and rows of names and exact locations, ages, dates, times, the potential of their souls. “Be sure to collect them in _order_ and at the right time. And take the hounds with you, just in case.”

Molly frowns, eyeing Armagh at the end of the bed, the hellhound turning to him with an open mouthed dog grin splitting her maw and her tongue lolling out the side. “Aren't they a little noticeable?” 

Gustav snaps his fingers and Armagh sits up, cocking her head. She shakes out her scruff, the raven feathers melting into a scruff of plain white fur, the pointed ears drooping into regular rounded ones and all the unusual coloring and other worldly nature of her fading into a normal, plain...dog.

She pads her way over to the arm chair, resting her head on Gustav's thigh and huffing. 

The fiend pats her on the head, resting it there and glancing over to Molly with a small smile. “There's still things you don't know.” 

Molly just grins, delighted by the new form and the fact that  Armagh can't tackle him to the ground with her new reduced height. “I mean that is certainly an interesting development.” 

Gustav shakes his head, an exasperated sigh bleeding past pursed lips. “You'll also need to stay ambiguous, depending on the town and the people.” 

Molly sneers, rolling his eyes and flashing his palm at the fiend. “Little hard when the markings won't let me do shit.” 

Gustav shrugs, scratching behind a happily grinning Armagh's ear. “Figure it out.” 

Molly sighs, rolling to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. The joints making their protests clear and part of him regrets having passed out in his clothes, though it's convenient now, he supposes. Even if it's a bit... pinchy feeling.  

“Molly?” Gustav asks, still draped in the armchair. 

“Hm?” 

The fiend is worrying at his left wrist again, fingers circled around it. Armagh noses at it, curiously tilting her head and glancing to Molly with pinched sapphire eyes. Gustav sighs pushing her snout away and waving her off. The hellhound's exuberance falters as she slinks her way towards Molly and comes to heel at his side. 

“The markings…” Gustav starts, quieter than usual. “They aren't doing anything, are they?” 

“No, why would they?” He doesn't mention the vestiges of dreams or the times he's woken up with golden ichor seeping from the ones on his neck or hand. 

Gustav sighs, seemingly relieved and his frown morphs back into an easy smile. “No reason.” 

Molly raises a brow, but the fiend just waves him off, kicking his feet up onto the bed and slipping further down into the armchair. If Gustav's come here to escape, the hectic chaos of the front gates and the sorting center than he must truly be tired. Molly should let him rest. Armagh follows on his heels, rounding the corner of the chamber’s exit with him and--

“Uh,” Molly pauses, briefly glancing back towards Gustav before returning to the god in front of him. “How long have you been out here?” 

Caleb's there, arms crossed, leaned against the wall and leveling him with the single most deadpan look Molly's ever seen cross his face. “The whole time.”

“So…” Molly rocks on his heels, one hand resting on the hilt of the scimitar and the other nervously gesturing towards the room. “You heard all of that?” 

“Most of it.” 

“Well… this is...” 

“Awkward?” Caleb asks, the tiniest hint of a smile on his face accompanying a raised brow. 

“I was gonna say unfortunate, but sure, yeah,” Molly shrugs, the beginnings of mortification settling in as he ruminates on what Gustav and him discussed. “That works too.”

Armagh trots forward, filling the silence with the click of nails on marble, nosing into Caleb's outstretched hand. The god seems either unaware or accepting of her less hellish appearance. 

“You know, your silence isn't a good sign.” Molly adds, eyeing the quiet god. 

Caleb huffs out a laugh. “Did you _want_ me to say something?”

“Hah, nope.” 

Caleb shrugs, turning his attention back to Armagh and Molly frowns. He keeps trying to remember exactly what Gustav said, if Caleb would have heard any of it, if the god knows Infernal, if he would have heard them talk about the seals and-- wait, why is Caleb still here anyways?

“Shouldn't you be getting back to Nott?” Molly asks, tilting his head. 

“Well, I stayed to make sure you were okay,” Caleb starts lifting his gaze from the floor to side eye him, that small smirk back on his lips. “But your _’dad’_ kicked me out.” 

Molly crosses his arms, shifting his stance, the new collection of coins tied to his belt making their own chorus of clinking metal. “He's not my ‘dad’.” 

Caleb raises a brow. “I mean--” 

“Hey! Chucklefucks!” The familiar voice reverberates from down the long columned corridor. 

“Fuck.” Molly curses, pulling the scimitar and turning to slash at the air in one fluid motion. No set destination in mind, just that he still wants to talk; settle some things about what happened underwater-- and maybe he selfishly doesn't want to part ways just yet. The shadows writhe to life as Caleb takes a step away from it, Armagh already leaping through with an excited _yip_. 

“Molly, wait--” 

“No time.” And admittedly he may not be thinking this through when he grabs Caleb's arm, when he maneuvers behind him, looks over his shoulder to see an angry, probably confused, Beau approaching--

“Don't--” 

And he pushes Caleb through.

  
  


\-------

Molly steps through after Caleb, Beau's shouts cut short as the gate snaps shut, and he immediately claps a hand over the necklace, the small mirrored coin digging into his fingers. He can't let her see where they've ended up just yet.

Muffled cursing and a drawn-out huff of air pulls his eyes to Caleb, who’s rolling to lay flat on his back and blinking up at the sky before he seems to notice Molly standing there, scimitar still held at his side. The god leverages himself up, swaying on his feet, brows creased and a wariness-- a lick of fear in his eyes that makes Molly realize he shoved Caleb through the portal without asking, prompting, or even indicating his plan. 

“ _Was zur Hölle_?” Caleb hisses in a language Molly doesn't know the first word to, but he definitely sounds pissed. 

Molly sheathes the blade, patting his free hand over his coat, searching for something to cover the necklace with and to obscure its sight. He finds a ribbon, pulls it free, carefully maneuvers it so the mirror can only see the sky and quickly winds it around it. It won't last forever, but it'll make it harder for Beau to pinpoint where he is. 

He turns back to Caleb who's staring at him like he's grown two heads and eight limbs-- like he doesnt recognize him. And yeah...maybe this looks all kinds of bad, but that wasn't the intent. Molly takes one step towards him and Caleb answers with his own step back, eyes narrowing. 

Molly holds his hands out like he's trying to soothe a wild animal and not a god who looks like he's about to either bolt or throw a fist at him. “Look, I still wanted to talk and she wasn't about to let us.” 

Caleb's face scrunches for a tick, frown deepening, but the tension in his shoulders falls by an increment. Molly would consider that a minor success. 

“Where are we?” Caleb asks, succinct and clipped, eyeing the area briefly before pinning him beneath those scrutinizing blues again. 

“Uh...” Molly glances around, but he can't name this place off the top of his head. It's a forest and it's daylight. And only _one_ of those facts rules out _maybe_ half the realm.

“You don't know _where_ you transported us?” Caleb bites out, voice rising above anything Molly's heard it go before. 

“Okay, hey, calm dow--”

“Calm down?” And that tension bleeds back in, Caleb's hands flexing at his sides, fingers nervously skittering in the air. “You pushed me through first and you had _no idea_ where I would end up.” 

Right. Okay. That. He didn't think about that. 

“Oops.” Molly shrugs, smiling sheepishly. 

Caleb's face goes through a series of chain reactions and honestly, what Molly wouldn't do for a little bit of mind reading right now. 

The god’s chest hitches, head shaking and a spark of gold settles in the cerulean of his eyes, a grimace coloring his features and a hand thrown out in a sweeping frustrated gesture at the forest sprawled around them. “Why are you so reckless?” 

“What?” And Molly is the one reeling back at that, a startled question bleeding from his lips.

Caleb grits his teeth, brow scrunching, opening his mouth to say something before closing it, shuffling back a step. He claps the heels of his palms together a few times, eyes searching everywhere but Molly like he's trying to find the right way to word this.  

“You got hurt back there, in the--the--” Caleb waves his hand, shaking his head, stumbling on the word. “The _verdammte_ ocean. And what if I wasn't there?” The god finishes, thumb kneading at his palm, eyes cast down.

So, it's not just about _this_ then. It's about the water fiasco too. Molly stares, unsure how to answer, because he would have been fine. A bit ‘dead’. Some suspended animation nonsense. But not… not _dead_ -dead. That would take quite a lot and a very specific amount of damage. He's not sure if Caleb knows that though and maybe he should explain it--

“None of them could have done anything about it besides Beauregard who could _maybe_ get you to Pike or even get some ambrosia in you, but even then...” Caleb shakes his head, gesturing to the all of him. Molly narrows his eyes at that. “Do you _ever_ think before you leap, or do you just dive headfirst into everything?” 

“Caleb, wait--” 

“Look, I,” Caleb huffs, cutting him off and shuffling in place, voice dropping back to its usual subdued cadence. “Thank you for saving me, but I--” The god looks up at him, eyes back to all blue, none of that golden fire left in them. “There are better ways to do things, sometimes.” 

Fuck it. Fuck this. “There wasn't time and I just… I didn't think.” 

Caleb chuckles, a sharp little breath of air, shaking his head and scratching at his covered arm, holding it tight to him. “ _Ja_ , you didn't.” 

“Well, I could have just let it happen, you know.” Molly says and regrets the words as soon as they leave, because honestly, kind of an asshole thing to say. 

“So why didn't you?” Caleb asks, eyes narrowing, taking a step forward.

“I--” 

“Is it because Yasha told you to keep us safe? Because Beauregard told you to keep us out of harm's way at all costs?” Another step and the gap between them is closing fast. 

Molly can't help the small flare of heat on the back of his neck, trickling its way down his spine at the how Caleb's voice, his demeanor, has shifted, something he missed entirely before now catching up before his eyes. 

Molly shakes his head, silently berating himself and sliding one foot back. “No.” 

“We don't need to be coddled, Molly.” Caleb says, firm and steady. “We're not weak.” 

“You aren't.” Molly agrees, because from what he's seen now, they really aren't, even if there's still a protective instinct there he can't explain.  

“Then _why_?” 

“I don't know…” Molly trails off, looking down, Armagh silent beside his leg, staring up at him. 

Gods he really doesn't know and he doesn't know how to explain it. Seeing someone's fate has only happened a handful of times and everytime it ends with the scimitar-- the one that was never supposed to be his-- rejecting him. But he's never actively held onto it afterwards before. He looks down at his hand, the burn mostly healed by the ambrosia, but the impression still there, the hilt design pressed into his skin. And it's certainly never showed him anything either--

A raven's raucous call interrupts the fallen silence, oil-slick and midnight touched wings dipping low overhead before tilting back up, heading further off. Molly follows its path with his eyes, squinting-- he could have sworn he saw a flash of ruby on it. It wanders further off than he can see and he looks back down to Caleb, the god already walking off, Armagh bounding along and giddily inspecting the forest they've found themselves in. It's as unremarkable as one can be. Plain, mortal, the only magic here lodged in the small thrums of life and potential in each trunk. It's nothing compared to the intoxicating golds of the Savalier Woods, life weeping from every pore of the fey-touched woods. 

Molly sighs after a moment, kneading at his temple, the beginnings of a headache somewhere behind his right eye. The more he tries to tap back into why he brought them here, the harsher it gets. So he tries his damndest to ignore it as he trails after Caleb, following him and Armagh through the weave of the forest, hand curling around the necklace while the god’s words still rattle around in his head. A part of him wishes Caleb would stop so he can just-- explain a few things, ask some questions, smooth out the wrinkle in this-- whatever they have. Whatever they are. Friends, maybe, Molly's not sure. Labels are always a bitch to work through. But Caleb shows no sign of slowing or stopping his trek, honed in on something, winding through the trees, fingers brushing the bark as he goes, head tilting for a moment, shifting the direction he's headed every so often. Hand lingering on one oak for longer than the others before continuing on. Armagh glances back to him, tilting her head, and Molly mirrors her with a shrug.  

The trees begin thinning, the canopy above them opening into a flood of sunlight. Molly looks up, past the remains of leaves obscuring the skyline and he sees a steeple. Hewn stone, weathered but standing, uncrumpled and stalwart, with a raven of bronze perched at the top, looking down towards the mortal realm below, its wings spread and reaching above its head. The treeline breaks into a clearing and Molly squints up at the building before him, a quaint testament to all the ones that were torn down after the Second Calamity. It’s simple, nearly humble compared to some he's seen; rectangular with a large oak door entrance and no windows that he can make out from this angle. 

Molly follows Caleb to the entrance. A sharp-cornered oval eye is carved into the door, spanning both arched gothic oak barriers. Small runes line the contour of it and he squints at them, leaning in close, but unfortunately, many of them predate anything he knows. He's really starting to think he should start putting that wealth of knowledge tucked in the library of the Pantheon's halls to good use.

“What is this place?” Molly finally asks, looking over to the other god, hoping Caleb won't brush him off.

“Abandoned.” Caleb supplies, tracing his fingers over the carving inlaid in the wood.

Molly snorts, crossing his arms, tail lashing. “Wow, real helpful, thank you, Caleb.” 

“Don't be a brat.” Caleb fires back, with a small smile that melts that lingering little ball of tension in Molly's gut. 

“No, but seriously, where are we?”  

“Blumenthal, I think….” Caleb sighs, pushing at the door. ”These trees aren't exactly as coherent as the ones in the Woods, but they feel familiar.” 

The door creaks open with the protesting squeal and scratch of dormant hinges, the inside obscured in partial shadow, and murky compared to the outside. Caleb ducks his head, lingering outside the entryway, frowning.

“Caleb?” Molly asks, thinking there's something more the god wants to say, but he's holding it back. 

“It's, ah, this--” The god shakes his head, seeming to think better of something and taking a step inside. “It's just close to where we met...” Caleb finally mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck, his wrapped arm tucked tight to his side.

“Oh,” He breathes, thoughts jumping to what he might know about either town, to the particular parts of Caleb's past Nott shared with him, to thoughts of what town Ikithon might've been from, might've found Caleb in, or however that tale went down, and his skin crawls. “Well, can't say I've ever been _here_ before, that's for sure.” 

Caleb's brow furrows, stepping inside after him. “Then how did you end up transporting us here?” 

Molly eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimmed gloom as he moves further in, the doors swinging shut behind them with a creak and a thud. “I don't know. I just reached out and picked somewhere familiar.” 

His eyes trail up along the wooden benches, the center path clear. It's as simple a church setting as it can get. There's dust-laden scarlet and purple tapestries draped from the walls, an eye spanning the center of each one, lining the interior all the way until the side walls end and turn into a sprawl of stained glass at the back of the temple. Caleb's already moving towards the scattering of hued light, so Molly trails after him. 

There's a table of some sort, a stone slab, an altar, elevated and nestled in front of the stained glass display, a handful of steps leading up to it, almost like a stage. Caleb ascends them, bare feet nearly silent on stone and Molly follows, unease settling across his shoulders at the runes carved into the edges of the table. Everything in this part of the temple is bathed in light, the stained glass casting them in a scattering hue of life-- the entire area drips with it. 

Molly looks at the imagery of treated glass and metal and he can't help but marvel. It's primary color is a deep ruby, with smatterings of lavender that make the light staining his skin glisten like fire. There's three cloaked figures reaching up, their forms gradually shifting into ravens with wings outstretched. The centered corvid dwarfs the two beside it, its eyes amethyst and piercing. It's beak trapped around an orb of golden light immortalized in glass, risen like the sun at the peak of the window. 

Caleb isn't looking at the stained glass, though, and Molly watches him trace the same eye shape chiseled into the surface of the altar with a hand musing at the stubble on his jaw. 

“You say you've never been here before?” The god asks, turning to him. 

Molly shakes his head, lost for words, because the way the light filters in and wraps around Caleb is indescribable. It's nothing he's ever seen before. Not even the fire butterflies in the woods looked like this. It's like he's _igniting_ , lighter spots in the stained surface standing out like sun-kissed freckles across his skin. Molly wants to trace them.

“Can I see the blade?” Caleb extends his hand and Molly nods numbly, unsheathing it and handing it over without a second thought. 

He only snaps back when Caleb takes it. The god's brow furrows, jaw clenching, a spark of light skittering from his fingertips and into the greedy onyx blade. He holds it for a bit longer than could possibly be comfortable, and Molly starts to get worried as Caleb just watches it, fingers flexing around where it’s balanced in his palms, eyes distant. He passes it back after far too long of a moment and Molly quickly resheathes it, a concerned frown on his lips. 

“Interesting,” Caleb mutters, rubbing the residual glimmers of light between his fingers, something calculating in the downwards tilt of his lip and the crease between his brows. 

“Well, don't say it like that.”

“Like what?” Caleb asks, shaking out his hand and turning back to the stained glass window. 

“I don't know, like it's weird.” 

Caleb glances back to him, brow raised. “It _is_ weird, Mollymauk.” 

He flinches at the use of his full name, but brushes it off. Looking back to the altar, the tapestries, the banners, the stained glass and then Caleb. A single thought looping in his head, a quiet confusion because he didn't think there were any true temples left. Not for him at least-- not for _them_.

“This is…” He starts, looking to the three ambiguous figures immortalized in stained glass, and the raven larger than the others among them. “This temple is for me, isn't it?” 

“Is it?” Caleb asks, but the way he says it lets Molly know he's already drawn the same conclusion.

The unease settles in the more Molly looks at the raven trying to pull the gold from the lavender sky. The creature trying to seize life itself and tear it out of the realm above it. It feels _unnatural_. It feels like overstepping his bounds and he turns on his heel, heading for the steps. 

“C'mon, we should keep moving, Beau will be here soon once she figures out where we went.” He remarks over his shoulder, stopping just at the bottom of the terraced stone. 

“Is that what the necklace does?” Caleb asks, following his lead. Armagh lopes over from where she had been inspecting the wooden benches, head tilting at the sight of the stained glass. Her sapphire eyes turn to him and then Caleb before settling beside the other god’s leg. 

“Yeah,” Molly shrugs, fiddling with the now wrapped little mirror. “It's, well... it's kind of a tracker, I guess.” 

“You know that's a bit… odd right?” 

“What, Nott didn't give you a collar too?” 

Caleb shakes his head. “No, she at least respects my privacy.” 

“Yeah, I didn't get much of a choice, just kind of... came to awareness and I already had it.” 

The god blanches, brows furrowing. “You didn't get a say?” 

“Hah, no, I didn't get a say in a lot of things. I got to choose my name though.”

“And you chose a _bird_?” Caleb asks, a small, sly smile curling his lip. 

“Well, gee, Caleb, when you put it like that--” 

“I didn't say it was a bad choice.” 

“Oh.” Molly's brain stutters and his ability to form speech melts alongside it. “Uh…” 

Caleb eyes him, taking a step back towards the entrance. “On second thought--”

“No, no, you can't just retract a statement like that, Caleb, that's not how this works.” He protests, heel catching in a gap between the masonry when he goes to follow and he stumbles. Molly’s arms flail for an embarrassing moment before he rights himself like nothing happened, tail lashing, and glances to the god who's just watching him. 

And then Caleb _laughs_ , honest to god laughs-- a real one, one that curls his lips and brightens his face, accompanied by the reflected scatter of prismatic light from the stained glass. It haloes him in a bountiful display of bleeding life that drapes over his cheeks and across his nose and reflects in his eyes-- it’s _beautiful._ And Molly thinks he might be dying-- _dying_ at the sight-- and that's _impossible_ , but there's a pang under his sternum and it's not his heart-- gods it can't be, but it's _something_.

“And you're the expert?” Caleb finally asks after a moment, the residual of a smile on his lips. Molly swallows around the knot tangled up in his throat. 

“I'll-” He stumbles over the word, tongue not catching up with his head, but he recovers with a swift grin, tail flicking. “I'll have you know I'm an expert in _everything_.” 

“Oh, really?” Caleb raises a brow and gods, Molly never thought he would love that little coy note in someone's voice so much, but here he is. 

“I am.” He nods, turning his nose up and crossing his arms. 

“Then what's that behind you?” Caleb points, head tilting.

“Wha--” He spins around on his heel, breath hitching in surprise at the hellhound that leaps in his arms and knocks him back against the steps that lead up to the altar and the sprawl of stained glass.

Caleb laughs again and Molly watches him as Armagh laps at his cheek, getting dog slobber all over him, but he doesn't care. Because he's sat on the steps of a temple and there's a god in front of him who he's starting to think he would love nothing more than to kneel for. He rediscovers his words somewhere amongst the stained ruddy mirth he can see hidden beneath the refracting swathes of light bathing Caleb's face.

“Is _everyone_ against me?” He asks, playfully shoving Armagh back. 

Caleb cards a hand through his hair, a small smile still on his face, patting Armagh's side when she comes to stand beside him. “No, just the smart ones.”

“And I assume you're one of these ‘smart ones’?” Molly asks with a smirk, leveraging himself to his feet and wobbling on the steps a moment before righting himself. 

Standing on the second step, he's actually taller than Caleb, the god still down in the central area and looking up at him. It's an odd sensation to look out at the sea of pews, to blink and see an afterimage of them filled with people he doesn't know, and then for it to all disappear. There's a quip on his tongue, but it fizzles out just as swiftly as it appears, because there's a figure moving at the back, clad in a dark cloak that obscures their form. He blinks and then again for good measure, but it doesn't go away like the others.

“What's that?” He drops his voice, glancing over to Caleb, cautiously maneuvering down one step while his hand reaches for the scimitar’s hilt.

Caleb levels him with a deadpan, crossing his arms. “I'm not going to fall for the same trick, Mollymau-”

“No seriously what the fuck is that?” He hisses, pulling the blade a quarter out of the scabbard as Armagh turns to growl at the approaching figure. 

“ _Was_?” Caleb turns on his heel, taking a cautious step back at the approach of the unknown assailant. 

The figure moves down the center aisle; feet bare, feline-like, fur dark, claws clicking on stone. Hands, equally furred, reach up to pull back their hood as a heavily accented voice fills the tensed silence. “Who are you and why are you skulking around my temple?” 

“Uh, apologies we--”

“ _Morrígan_?” The tabaxi's eyes are wide, staring up at where he's frozen on the steps and framed in a backdrop of stained glass.

Fuck. 

“Nope, no, not even close, you're mistaking me for some other… purple-skinned...god--” Shit. “I mean... tiefling?” 

Caleb facepalms beside him, running a hand down his face and sighing. Armagh growls low, frame tensed and jowls lifting at the tabaxi woman who spares her no mind. The tabaxi just presses forward, and Molly takes another two steps back towards the altar.

“We hadn't seen you around the temple in so long, we thought you had died.” She says, hands clasped before her, eyes pinched and pupils blown wider than they should be.

“Ah, well, you know, the funny thing about that--”

“Who are you?” Caleb rejects. The tabaxi freezes, eyes darting to him like she forgot he existed.  

“Cree.” She says curtly, gaze moving back to pin Molly and he feels that same pressure he felt looking at the three figures building in the back of his skull at the sound of her name, at the face before him-- Some part of him knows her, but they've never met. He would remember this.

“And this place?” Caleb asks, ascending the steps, coming to stand beside him, Armagh on his heels, and Molly's never been more grateful. 

Cree curls her lip, seemingly displeased by Caleb's new proximity to him, but Molly's all for the moral support right now. His head is pounding and the way Cree keeps sweeping her eyes over him, lingering on the tattoos and the jewelry, is making his skin crawl. Not to mention the way she _looks_ at him-- like he's come to deliver her soul, to _save_ her.

“It's a temple to the Nonagon,” she explains, bowing her head, “Built before the Second Great Disparity, Calamity to All.” 

She turns to him, another step closer, reaching for his hand and taking it before he can recoil. Cree doesn't feel right, there's something wrong with… _everything_ about her.

“I've maintained it for you like you asked, I did everything you asked, but the others-- they all fell or abandoned you. I'm the only one left,” she continues. He's stuck staring at where she's holding his hand, as if she won't start to age beneath the contact, like she's done this before, like she doesn't share the unease most living things do beneath Death's touch. “It's been hundreds of years, Morrígan. It's been _lifetimes._ ” 

“Uh,” Molly starts, shuffling a step back, pulling his hand out of her grip, only stopping when he runs into the altar. He steadies himself on its edge, stone digging into his palm. “Look, Cree, is it? I don't know how to tell you this, but--”

“Why did they tell you to build this temple, what was it used for?” Caleb cuts him off, voice clear and cutting, and Molly's never heard him so… harsh. 

Cree dips her head, nodding a few times, hands moving in an intricate pattern before settling, her gaze shifting to him again. “You said they would give us everything we ever wanted, bring us to glory, grant us godhood.”

“Oh…” Molly looks to Caleb, but the god is honed in on the tabaxi.

“Is that all?” Caleb asks taking a step towards her. 

Cree takes a step back, but doesn't break eye contact with Molly, all but ignoring Caleb, and there's an uncomfortable crawl under his skin at the scrutiny. 

“I fixed the stained glass myself and I--I honored them like you wanted,” Cree says, nodding, disregarding Caleb's question, her voice bled through with a zeal and dangerous devotion that puts a bad taste in Molly’s mouth. “And Macha's blade-- I buried it where you asked me to.” 

“Where?” Caleb asks and Molly's glad, because he can't seem to unstick his tongue from the pit in his mouth. 

“Come, come, it's this way.” Cree waves, beckoning them to follow her as she descends the steps and heads for the wooden doors. 

Molly turns to the other god, head pounding, something like nausea in his gut. He glances down at the hand he's placed on the altar to brace himself but all he can see is red, bleeding from between his fingers and dripping onto the floor. He yanks his hand away, blinking rapidly, and it returns to nothing but the spill of prismatic light across his skin.  He shakes his head, backpedaling, swiping at his palm and stumbling down the steps, glancing over his shoulder at Cree waiting by the oak doors and back up to Caleb. 

“I don't--”

“She talks about you like you're her messiah.” Caleb cuts him off, low and hushed, descending the steps after him. 

“I know, okay, I know, but this isn't-- There's something wrong here.” He hisses back, staring at his palm, but it's just tattoos and lavender; only the crimson eye glaring back at him from the viper inked around it. 

“This way, this way!” Cree calls from the door, voice eager. 

Molly doesn't like this. He doesn't want this. There's blood written in these walls, there's death breathing in these stones, there's something tainted and wrong in the air; and he's not sure how much of it is because of someone he never knew. He's not sure why when Cree touched him it felt like there was _nothing_ there. As if someone pulled her out of the weave of fate, plucked her out like it was nothing and burned away the string that was supposed to determine her fate long ago. 

“Caleb, I don't--” His skull feels like it's splitting and he wants to _leave_.

“I need to know.” Caleb leans in close, whispering, and he's pressed in far closer than he's gotten before and Molly blinks dumbly at that. “I need to know what she's talking about.” 

Molly just stares at him, tries to ignore the way the light from the stained glass keeps flickering into crimson dripping down the walls, sliding down the stairs, pooling around his feet; even bleeding its way down Caleb's face, his hands, the wrap on his arm a slipping, glittering mess of it. Everywhere the light touches turning to an omen and he's _drowning_ in it.

“ _Molly_ ,” Caleb breathes, placing a hand on his shoulder and the red fades back to simple chromas. He focuses on pleading cerulean set against freckled skin and tries to forget what it all looks like covered in gore. “Please?” 

He's never heard Caleb sound like that, and the god's never been the one to voluntarily reach for him either, to make the physical connection that sends gold skittering in the back of Molly’s skull. Maybe this _is_ important to him. 

“Okay.” He huffs, nodding and swallowing the thick bundle of unease in his throat. “Okay.” 

Caleb brushes past him, Armagh pressing against his leg, whining, and Molly follows numbly after the other god. The sound of his boots on the stone are thunder claps in his ears and he tries not to think about blood seeping out from between the stone work to greet each step. He tries to only think about cerulean eyes, auburn lashes, freckles, delicate and thin, work calloused fingers, the ruddy flush beneath pale cheeks--- _splattered in blood that was never meant to dress a god_. Molly kneads at his temples, the image caught in his head and he can't unsee it. Every time he blinks its Caleb; it's the god with rubies splashed and falling from his hair, it’s rivulets of life under his hands, twining down his forearms, dripping from trembling fingertips in rivers of insidious carmine. 

Molly huffs out a breath, refocusing on the dirt-scuffed off-white of the god's shirt in front of him. It's not covered in mortal blood. It's not. None of it is. But he blinks and the after-image is still there, stained light turning deadly. Molly swallows against the creeping unease clawing its way up his throat. Caleb glances over his shoulder as they re-exit the large decorated oak doors, a concerned pinch between his brows, lips moving like he's asking something. All Molly sees is eyelashes decorated in rolling beads of ichor that slide down his cheeks, rounding the curve of his jaw and winding further, down and down, paths of crimson marring the pale column of his throat--

“--you okay?” Caleb asks again, falling into step beside him, hand brushing his shoulder and Molly breathes easier, because even the brief flash of gold amongst his senses is an anchor and he clings to it. 

“Fine,” he says, shaking his head, the flood of sunlight and the open space helping with the mounting pressure in his skull.  

Cree is further ahead, and she hasn't looked back yet. He can't help but be wary of what her reaction might be. He's not exactly anything like what Morrígan used to look like. Though, to be fair, he's not even sure what appearance Morrígan took on to interact with their… cult? 

They round the side of the temple and Molly glances over the runes chiseled into the stones. Caleb notices them too, tracing them with his fingers as they go. Armagh falls behind the god, hackles raised. There are only a few symbols he knows off the top of his head here, and all the ones he does recognize speak of obfuscation and non-detection. They should have _never_ been able to simply stumble upon this place, and Molly desperately wishes they hadn't. 

It's when Cree leads them to the back, to a sprawl of trees behind the temple, meters from the stained glass, that he sees it. A patch of dead, hallowed ground at the foot of an oak, a towering blackened sentinel that stands out amongst the others, gnarled and decaying and petrified where it stands. A raven caws from the boughs, tilting its head, glaring down at him from one of the empty branches as he approaches behind the tabaxi. Its eyes are a beady, bloody red. 

“She's here. I kept her safe like you asked.” Cree starts, gesturing to the barren patch of earth between two roots. 

She turns back to him, blinking, like she's seeing him for the first time, and the smile curling her lips finally falls. Molly wonders how much the stained glass and limited light distorted his visage if this is her reaction to finally seeing him clearly. He shifts back a step, Caleb doing the same to his right. His hand moves towards his scimitar, and as Cree’s eyes follow the movement down to the blade at his hip, she goes rigid. 

“Why do you not have your blade?” She asks, voice trembling, hands flexing at her side, ears pressed back.

“Uh…” 

“Where's--” She glances back over the tattoos, over his coat, over every part of him and she blinks, recoiling. “ _Who are you?”_

“It's...me?” He tries, but she just shakes her head.

“That blade isn't yours-- you're not Morrígan-- _false god_.” She hisses, taking a step forward, something dangerous snapping in her voice. Molly's stuck, staring, the confusing juxtaposition of images returning and he sees her, and then it's something else-- it's a naive little child without a purpose, it's him placing a hand on her shoulder, telling her she has so much potential, him reaching towards her sternum and pulling free a golden thread--

“Time to go,” Caleb reaches for the hilt, right arm brushing across him and Molly goes rigid, snapping back to himself, but unable to stop the god as he pulls the scimitar free from the scabbard in a ringing cry of metal. 

Cree reaches for Caleb, for the blade. Armagh is snarling as she comes to stand between them and the tabaxi, growing in scale and raven feathers bursting from her scruff. Molly watches, numb and utterly frozen, as Caleb turns and tears a hole through the fabric of reality with a single upwards slash of the blade, eyes gold and teeth grit, a swirl of noxious light around his white-knuckled fingers. 

“How--?” The word squeaks out, dying out in an embarrassing pant of air when Caleb grabs his hand and the blade-- the one that belongs to fate, belongs to Death-- still clutched in his other. 

There's a moment where all he can hear is Cree shouting, Armagh barking, the ominous ring of the blade stuck in his ears. His eyes are locked on to where Caleb is clutching the scimitar in his right hand, the crawl of sickly light inching up and beneath the wrappings covering his forearm. He wants to ask how, he wants to know so many things, a thousand questions rattling around in in his skull amongst the golden light creeping in from where his hand is tangled with the other's. Molly goes to say something, say _anything_ \-- and then Caleb pulls him through the twisting shadows.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c thank you to Tommy for betaing this mess <3

When he’d held the blade in the temple he hadn’t been sure if it would work, nor had he planned on putting it into practice so soon. But with Cree bearing down on them, and the possibility of Beauregard hot on their heels, Caleb had made a split second decision and tumbled head first into it. 

He falls out of the other side of the gateway, knees giving out beneath him, the scimitar slipping from his slackened fingers to rest in dew-misted reeds. He finds himself half-submerged in a brook that babbles around him, firm stone beneath his chest, while left arm drifts lazily in the current. The water is frigid and unforgiving, but a soothing balm on the hand he plunges into it. Where the hilt touched him, the skin is flaking and angry, blackened and ill. He hisses through his teeth at the initial bite, sliding off the stone to kneel in the water, panting, head reeling, silt shifting beneath his knees. 

“Caleb?” 

The voice is shaky, unsure, and he turns to see Molly pulling himself up onto the creek's bank. The god's reclaimed scimitar sits balanced on his lap, one hand hovered over it possessively and the other musing at the still wrapped necklace he is holding. 

“I need to you to level with me,” Molly starts, pinning him with pinched crimson eyes. “What exactly can you do?” 

“Lots of things,” Caleb admits quietly, drawing his hand out of the brook and musing over the tangles of gold already weaving the burns out of existence. “That's a bit of an open-ended question, Mollymauk.” 

The only sounds are the beginnings of dusk and the churning of the small river they've found themselves in. Caleb focuses on the shift of sand underfoot and on the chirrups of nocturnal beasts awakening from their slumber. He makes his way to the shore, taking a seat beside the oddly subdued god of Death, who side-eyes him. 

“How can you use the blade?” 

Caleb sighs, running his fingers over the last of the wounds remaining. “It's energy right?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, _so,_ I just use it.” 

Molly shifts beside him, setting the sword aside. “You just… _’use’_ it?” 

“When I held it… it seemed to exist the same way the threads do, so I just plucked it.” 

“I don't—?” 

Caleb holds out a hand. “Do you have a coin?”

There's a moment of rummaging, the shift of metal against metal, and a small circle of gold is dropped in his palm. 

“So. This is your magic,” Caleb taps the heads side, turning to look at Molly, who seems rapt to his demonstration. “This is mine.” He flips it so tails is facing up. “Two sides of the same coin right?” 

“Yes?” Molly starts, frown deepening. “But they're complete opposites, they don't ever face one another,  they don't ever meet in the middle.” 

Caleb holds up a finger, shifting so he's sitting cross-legged and facing the other. Molly follows suit, and Caleb glances up to see if he's is still paying attention. He never noticed the small flecks of color on the god's cheeks, or spilling over the bridge of his nose. Like little spots of iridescence, small constellations caught in violet, the settling oranges and pastel hues of the sunset making them shimmer. He always thought they were just plain freckles before, but they're almost little tiny shards of stained glass— 

Molly clears his throat, gesturing to the demonstration, and Caleb startles, realizing he's been quiet for far too long. _He should continue the explanation…_

“Ja… well-- ah, that's how it might seem at first. But instead of thinking of it in terms of opposite sides or two seperate parts that can never meet--” Caleb flips it, pinching it between two fingers until it's angled so all Molly can see is the side. “Think of it all as _one_ whole coin.” 

Molly tilts his head. “So the magic is the same?”

“In a way.” Caleb shrugs, passing the coin back over-- and he can't help but notice that amongst the ink-stained violet of Molly's hands there are more of those nearly reactive freckles dusted over them. Like the shift of peacock feathers; in the right light they shine from deep-purple, to vibrant greens, to violent golds. It's hard to remember if Morrígan had those either, but he can't recall ever getting this close to them, inspecting them this intently— 

That's not important.  

He can tell Molly still doesn't quite get his explanation, and the concept is hairbrained to contemplate in itself. But he’s had over half a century to think of nothing else besides the interactions of Life and Death and how he fit into it. All the different ways he's tried to explain it to himself, to calculate and understand the magic and the rituals Ikithon was performing, and why his particular abilities were necessary. Maybe there's another way to explain it…

There's a loose thread on the hem of his shirt and he plucks it, a new idea on the tip of his tongue.

“Here,” Caleb grabs Molly’s hand without really thinking about it, settles one frayed end of the thread on Molly's pointer finger before repeating the process with the god's other. Guides him to hold each side until it's suspended between the two points. “Say our magic is this string.” 

There's a darker flush to Molly's cheeks than before and the god takes a moment to finally speak. “O...okay.” 

Caleb gently cups Molly's hands, the usual brush of the other's aura negligible compared to what wracked through his arm moments ago. “So you are thinking about it as two seperate strings usually, right?” 

“Mhm.” Molly hums, the affirmation nearly strained, for some reason. 

“Well, don't.” Caleb slowly moves Molly's hands together, until the two ends of the thread meet. Even with the continued contact, the sparks of dusk are _nothing_ compared to the hungry ebony of the blade. If anything, and the more he contemplates it, the slight brush of Molly’s aura is pleasant in comparison. “Life and Death are the beginning and the end of the same process.” Caleb looks up from where the string is folded to wide crimson eyes. “We are part of the same thread.”

Dusk is starting to seep in, casting dusty indigos and lilting violets across this scene. Those iridescent freckles have turned back to plain, dark plum against lavender, and he can see the peek of a fang past where the god is worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“And, the, uhm… the threads?” Molly stumbles over the words, and Caleb's not sure what has the other so nervous. “Is that how you do the magic stuff?” 

“I suppose…” He releases the god’s hands and the sensation of the other’s touch, tucked up under the base of his skull and at his fingertips, fizzles out. Molly sags forward, nearly relieved, and Caleb wonders if his own aura might be painful for the other to interact with. “It's just more of  a concrete way to explain an abstract concept."

“And it's always been easy to manipulate life and, ah, ‘potential’  in all sorts of ways. Never like you do, though.” Caleb muses at his non-existent wounds, there's no evidence that the sword even hurt him left to contemplate. “I cannot take it away. I can overwhelm it, I can shift it, I can slow it down, and I can even bend it, but I can never _steal_ it.” 

Not entirely true. It's just difficult. And requires specific circumstances and motive. It is… unnatural. As unnatural as it might feel for Molly to grant something life, to extend their fate or postpone it. It feels viscerally abnormal and nearly soul wrenching. Like your very being is protesting the act because it is not what you were made to do. 

“Then why the components?” 

“Focus… It is hard to do something when there is not a focus. Strings are easy, I can... cling to them and manipulate them, but I can't just look at Armagh and make her grow bigger, I have to search for it, find it, and _force_ it.” 

The hound in question perks up from where she's flopped onto the shore beside them, jaws parting in an excited pant, indigo tongue lolling out. She's back to her original, more hellish form already. 

“How did you learn you could do all of that though?” 

“Practice,” Caleb sighs. It's one word for it-- a pretty euphemism to hide under, like gnarled roots under blossoms. 

“And the healing thing?” 

“That was not… it is not exactly healing. Nothing like what Pike can do. It was more of, ah… more of a trade...in that instance at least.”

“How so?” 

Caleb purses his lips, searching for the right way to explain a phenomena that can't exactly be put into so many words. “I trade a piece of my thread for yours I suppose.  Equilibrium and exchange is an important factor to maintain in a system as delicate as life and death...and time.”

Unless you find ways around it of course.  

“That's--”

“Impossible?” Caleb cuts Molly off with a wry, huffing laugh. “You are here aren't you, uninjured? 

“That's fair.” Molly mutters, brow scrunching and tail whipping across the sandbank behind him. “But how the _hell_ would you know how to do something like that and that you'd recover from it?” 

“I've had a lot of practice.” 

“On gods?”

Caleb looks down at the wraps on his arm and pulls it closer to his chest. “No.” 

“So... it was a risk then?” 

“Ja, I guess it was.” He glances back up to Molly, fingers curling at the way the god is just watching him.  “But it worked.” 

“It did, didn't it…” 

Caleb grimaces at the way Molly says it. Nearly disapproval, toeing close to disappointment. 

“Do you know how long my recovery took?” He probes, trying to steer the conversation somewhere else, but curiosity still biting at him. 

Molly seems taken aback, recoiling and eyeing him warily. “Uh...why?” 

“Curious,” he mutters.

“I wasn't exactly timing it, Caleb. Your skin was practically melted off and you were covered in blood, needless to say I was a bit fucking distracted. You could--” Molly's voice quakes as he holds up his hands. “You could see your finger bones and your teeth and I--”

“Do you think Beauregard would know?” 

“Why the-- What's so important about how long it took to--” Molly shakes his head, frowning,  “Caleb, those injuries weren't meant for you and you traded them onto you like they were _nothing_.” The god laughs, carding a shaking hand through his hair, looking down and then back up, eyes pinched, “You realize I can't exactly die that easily right?” 

Caleb frowns, brow furrowing, “The others made it seem like there was real danger there.” 

“They overreact about everything pertaining to me, haven't you noticed?” 

“I have.” 

“ _Exactly.”_ Molly sighs. “So, I know you're peeved or whatever at me for taking a risk, but I think I deserve to be a little angry at you for doing the same.”

“...okay.” 

“Cool... so we're at an agreement then.” Molly crosses his arms. “Mutual peeveness.” 

Caleb wrinkles his nose at the odd turn of phrase, eyeing the god. “Don't say it like that.” 

“The peevesters.” 

“Stop.” 

“Two peeves in a pod.” 

_“Molly._ ” 

“Dr. Peevyll and Mr. Peeved.” 

Caleb buries his face in his hands and sighs. 

“Don't pretend that my sense of humor isn't _absolutely_ endearing.” 

“Don't you have a job to do?”

“Besides tormenting you?” Molly laughs. “Nah.”  

“Thanks.” Caleb mutters into his palms, grateful Molly can't see the way he's trying not to smile.

“For existing? Aw, you're welcome, Cay.”

Caleb drops his hands, sitting up straight, spine going rigid and back tensing. The nickname sits against his skin like chilled acid, like poison, and he's been left to rot in it. The last time he heard someone call him that… the last time-- 

“Don't call me that.”

Molly seems genuinely taken aback. The jovial mood has deflated into quiet, the god's brows furrowing and that little crease taking up residence between them. Caleb feels almost guilty for causing it this time.

“Tá brón orm.” 

Caleb goes to accept the apology, until he realizes it wasn't said in Common. Yet, he knows it. He knows those words, because there were three gods that all spoke like that and he learned it from them. 

“Was?”

“Oh, ah, sorry.”

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Molly grins sheepishly, shrugging, and there's a nervous downwards twitch to his lip that has Caleb narrowing his eyes.

“Molly.”

“Would you believe me if I told you Common wasn't my first language?” 

“Abyssal?” Caleb knows it wasn't abyssal, but he'll entertain the idea for his own sanity.  

“Ha, gods no. That shit’s _abyss-_ mal.” 

“Gods,” Caleb facepalms with a long, weary sigh, rubbing at his jaw, and looking up to the slowly encroaching night sky. 

“Come on, that one was good, you gotta admi-”  

“Why do you know how to speak like Morrígan, Molly?” Caleb cuts him off.  

“Gustav and the others taught me.” 

“So it's a fiend thing?”

It makes sense that Molly would pick up some quirks while he was down there. It's only natural. But at the same time… _at the same time_ \-- he can't be too careful about this. He can't just blindly trust that Molly doesn't have any memories. People can always lie, after all. 

Molly shrugs, “Sure...” 

And he _is_ lying. Partially. There's something he's hiding and he wants to dig for it, because secrets are dangerous, but he's already pried at Molly enough, he's already unnerved him enough...

“How do you say spring?” 

“Earrach.” 

It sounds just like them. Less condescending and a bit clunky, admittedly. The drawl is thinner too, like Molly has actually forgotten the ease with which to speak it and developed a strange lisping roll as a result. It's an odd quirk, but it being there at all settles that nervous prickling down his spine. 

 

“How do you...say ‘idiot’?” 

Molly smirks. “I'm not gonna tell you that one, you'll just use it against me.” 

“No,” Caleb tries his best to keep his face neutral.

Molly gives him a deadpan look. 

“I would,” he admits, and Molly nods, lips split into a cat's curl of a grin.

“At least you admit you're a dick.” 

“One of us has to.”

Molly bats him on the shoulder. “Hey, I'm not a dick!” 

“Uh-huh,” Caleb nods, glancing side-long to Armagh who cocks her head at him. 

“Name _one_ dickish thing I've done.” 

“I'm sure Beauregard has many examples.” 

“Not fair,” Molly pouts, “name one dickish thing I've done to you.” 

Caleb let's the silence fill in as his answer. He can't think of anything Molly has done, but he has quite the list for someone else. 

“Ha! _See_!” Molly throws his hands up. “Not a dick.” 

“Fine,” Caleb tilts his head, pretending to survey the other with a shrewd once over. “Maybe you're...okay.” 

“Was that a compliment, Mr. Caleb?” 

“Was it, Mr. Mollymauk?” 

Molly grins. “I think it was.” 

Caleb shrugs, smothering his own answering grin with his thumb before it can take form. “To each their own.” 

“Amadán…” Molly mutters, shaking his head. 

“ _Was_?” 

“Idiot… basically.” Molly fiddles with a ring on his finger, not meeting his eyes, an odd peculiarity in itself.“You wanted to know it didn't you?” 

“Oh.” He already knew the word, but hes not about to tell Molly that. “Ah, danke.” 

“By the way, _that_ word… it means ‘thank you’ right?” 

“Ja?” 

“Why do you use it?” 

“It ah, it comes more naturally than others…” Caleb supplies, “it feels right.” 

“Danke.” 

It comes out sounding more like ‘donkey’ from the god, and Caleb cringes.

“Don't try to say that ever again.” 

“Come on it cant have been that bad of an attempt.”

Caleb cocks a brow. “ _Amadán._ ” 

And maybe it's showing off, but there's something satisfying in the way the perfect pronunciation of the word sends Molly reeling. The god blinks, before falling back into another grin. “Well, now, that's just cheating.” 

Caleb goes to reply, dusk having fully fallen upon their small creekside rendezvous, when there's the snap of magic behind them. 

“Boo, motherfuckers.” 

Molly moves before he does, reaching for the sword he set beside him, wrenching it up and twisting to cut open a gateway, still kneeling in the sand of the bank. Fingers brush Caleb's sleeve, a step from circling around his arm and pulling. He manages to glance over his shoulder to see Beauregard grabbing for him just as Molly yanks him through the tangle of shadows.

\-----------

Caleb rolls to a stop in the sand, spluttering and coughing up a rather annoying mouthful. Molly's managed to land a few feet from him, clambering to his feet and dusting off his coat in a less than graceful motion.

Caleb leverages himself up, glaring at the other god. “Would you stop pushing me into holes?” 

Molly smirks, presumably at the poor word choice, bending down to pick up the fallen blade, but otherwise says nothing. 

“I swear to everything above and below you are five years old,” Caleb mutters, stumbling to his feet. He shakes the sand out of his hair the best he can, the near, rushing rumble of the ocean humming in his ears.  

“I resent that,” Molly starts, “if anything I'm like a t--” 

There's another pop of magic and the snap of ozone. Caleb looks over to see Beauregard storming across the sand towards them. Molly reaches for him again, and Caleb takes a step away. It has the other god whirling to face him, brow raised, but frankly, Caleb's tired of running. And he has questions that someone with more knowledge-- someone with the responsibility of guarding Ioun's old halls, might be able to answer. Beau reaches them quickly, manages to wrench the sword from Molly's grip before the god can make a move, and tosses it into the sand with a snarl. 

“Fucking bamf from me one more time, Molly, and I--” 

“Have you ever heard of a woman named Cree?” Caleb cuts her off, inspecting her face for any tic or hint that she might recognize the name. The tabaxi's snarling face and her words still inciting a burning curiosity, _and_ he can see the sudden question has diverted her ire from Molly. Which is a win in itself, as the god's tail has coiled close to his calf and his mounting distress is particularly evident. 

Beau whirls to face him, Molly throwing a hand up and pulling an exasperated-- maybe confused, face at him from over her shoulder. “What, no, what the fu--”

“Nonagon?” He asks instead, and still nothing besides general irritation from her. Disappointing, really, but it's worked to throw her off kilter at least.

“Stop saying words at me, flower boy,” she barks, crossing her arms. “It's time for you to go home anyways. Your mom's getting worried.”

He feels his face flush and he ducks his head. “She is not--” 

“Yada-yada-- I _know._ It's just fun to watch you match your hair.” She ruffles said hair, sending him a sly smirk that he grimaces back at. 

“Don't be a dick,” Molly interjects from behind her. 

“Speaking of dicks--” Beau turns on her heel to face Molly, “Hello.” 

“Uh…” 

Beau smirks, “That's it? That's all you've got?” 

“I can… I can explain?” 

She reaches out and tears the wraps off Molly's necklace in one fluid motion, and Caleb nearly forgot the god even did that in the first place. “I don't need your dumb explanation. Just go talk to Yasha. She wanted to speak with you and I was coming to get you before you went on your little adventure.” 

Molly's gone all kinds of pale; an ironically, deathly lilac. “Shit.” 

“Don't look so worried. You're not in trouble. I didn't tell her about--” Beau gestures between him and Molly and that has Caleb cocking his head. “This.” 

Molly just sighs, relieved, and nearly sheepish. “Thank you.” 

“Don't thank me,” she tosses the dropped sword up to her hand with the toe of her boot, passing it back over to Molly, “just go see her, you idiot.” 

Molly glances over at him for a moment and Caleb nods. They can always talk later and he shouldn't leave the head of the Council waiting any longer. The god sends him a small smile, a quirk of his lips that's different from his usual rakish grin, or nervous tight-lipped smile, before neatly rending the air, stepping into the resulting tear and away.

A part of him can't help but wonder where Armagh went off to during all of this. Admittedly, another wonders when he'll see Molly next… and that the god isn't in any kind of trouble.

“Well, now that that's over with.” Beau dusts her hands off before turning to him with a drawn out sigh. “Let's get you back.”

\---------//----------

The sound of his heels on the marble of the hall is deafening. In reality it isn't that loud, but it's nearly as headache-inducing as the running mantras and panicked conjectures in his head. Yasha isn't harsh, nor is she cruel. She can be stern, she can be aloof, but she is kind and always just. He's just not sure why he's been called in. And so soon after he had to sit in a throne that never fits right, and lie to all of them. The problem has been handled, according to Gustav at least, but it doesn't stop the stony guilt in his gut from sticking around as a reminder.

Calianna had waved at him from the bench in the gardens, the guardian of the hearth probably taking a break to admire the sprawls of color and vibrancy. And maybe Molly would have stopped to chat with her, knowing full well how lonely and empty it can get up here, but he has an agenda here that he can't ignore. 

He passes by the private rooms, past the antechamber and the main meeting hall, past the quarters and empty beds that used to house even more members of the pantheon. When there were more, at least. 

He makes his way towards the carrying sound of voices, the words warping and shifting amongst the marble into grand phrases that don't mean terribly much beyond stretched syllables in his ears. Not until he gets close to the doorway, not until he freezes in place at the tenor of one particular voice. 

“What are your thoughts on this?” 

Assum is here, and presumably Allura with him. 

“You can not just let him go wherever he pleases. We still do not know why Vecna brought him back. We must be careful in these particular matters.” Allura sounds strained, wary; far different from how she sounds in the hall where her voice can fill the room and command attention. 

“Vecna did it before we sealed him up down there, there could have been any number of reasons why. He brought others back before and you've never questioned them so heavily.” Yasha says with the rumbling authority of a storm. “And I trust Molly. He's shown himself to be a formidable friend these past few decades and he's never shown an interest in betraying us.”

“Morrígan didn't either.” Allura says, and Molly looks down at the marble beneath his boots. He shuffles a step away from the door, contemplates waiting out in the main hall knowing full well he shouldn't be here to listen to this. 

“Allura… we still don't know if that was them or--”

“It wasn't anyone's influence.” 

Yasha sighs, a weary, solemn thing, and there's the shift of steel against marble, the slow drag of a blade shifting on the floor. “I know they hurt her, Allura… and I know that they killed many others, but that doesn't mean Molly is inclined to do the same-- to _be_ the same.”

There's silence for a strangled moment. 

“Those markings… they mean something and I am sorry, but I can not allow him to maneuver through the realms so freely. I gave you the necklaces for a reason, to keep an eye on him… and I don't think Beauregard has done a very good job at that.”

There's the snap of thunder overhead, the distant brontide creeping through the halls in a haunting chorus. “Beau has done her utmost to make sure Molly is accompanied at all times when up top and that his intents are not insidious or beguiled.” There's a drawn out sigh. “She's befriended him over the years because he's   _genuine_ , he's just, and she would never consider anyone who was not to be her friend.”

“People can be easily tricked.”  Assum finally pipes up and Molly clenches his fists, lip curling. 

“Molly is not a _trick_. He is a person. He is a god, just like any of us.”

“Yasha, I still do not think it's a good idea to let him--” 

“This is _my_ council and this is my jurisdiction, not yours. I'll keep him out of the West, but I make no promises for the East.”

“Very well.” There's the shuffle of fabric, as if someone is standing. “I defer to your judgement in this, but I will keep an eye on him.” 

“Do as you please,” Yasha clips out, “but he is a good soul and I will stand by my decision.” 

Allura exits first, startling for a brief moment at the sight of him lingering outside the doorway. Her surprise is betrayed only by the slight widening of her eyes before she continues on, pointedly avoiding his gaze. He knows she's just looking out for her own side of things, that she's benevolent at heart, but it still stings. Assum follows, eyeing him, and Molly eyes the god back, the usual lingering undertone of decay following his retreat. He hates the way the other's irises sometimes look like poison. 

Yasha doesn't exit and he can hear another loud sigh, the shifting of a chair, and the heavy settling of metal against marble. Molly pokes his head in, frowning when he sees her sat in a high-backed, velvet chair, with her sword momentarily dropped to rest on the marble. The chamber is dimly lit by a few candles, none of the lively, natural light illuminating the space as in  the rest of the hall. She looks vulnerable, small, her face buried in her hands and form bowed. 

“Yasha?’”

She straightens up, startled, either by him or the fact he's here at all. “Yes, Molly?” 

“...thanks.” 

She nods, the relieved beginnings of a small smile on her face. “Come here.” 

When she waves him closer he eagerly steps up, obliging when she motions for him to bend down as she reaches for the clasp of the necklace. The pop of arcane energy snaps in his ears-- and then its off. No fanfare, no grand ceremony. It's just gone, like that. In an instant. 

He sighs, straightening up, fingers tracing over where it rested on his collarbones, against his sternum. A nearly negligible weight in memory, but it feels immense now that it's gone. There's the protesting squeal of metal and than a shattering crack as Yasha closes her fist over it. She tosses the remains into the nearby fireplace like an afterthought, but it looks more like a funeral pyre. Like the passing of an era, and he's bearing witness to its strange ritual end. 

“I'm sorry you had to wear it at all...”  she mutters, eyes downturned to the seep of gold from the new cuts in her palm. 

“It's okay...” Molly sighs, staring at the shattered remains twisting into nothing in the flames. “And I’m sure Beau is more than glad she doesn't have to babysit me anymore as well.” 

“She said she would miss lording it over you.” 

“Of course she did.” 

“Enjoy your freedom, Molly. I should have made this decision a long time ago. I am sorry for not…” 

“You're fine.” He places a hand on her shoulder where she's hunched forward in her chair, her elbows propped on her knees. “It's fine, Yasha.” Molly crouches down so he can meet her eyes, gesturing to the last pieces of his crumbling collar in the hearth.  “Look, it got me out of trouble a few times, so it wasn't all bad.” 

The excuse loses traction the second it leaves him. Is safety and security really worth the restriction of an individual's freedom? It doesn't matter...it wasn't his decision to make, anyways, and for that he does not envy the position of kings. He may be Death, but he does not have to pick and choose like they do.  

“It's the premise of it.” She says, looking off to the left and away from him again. “You're not a dog, and you're not Morrígan… and it's taken far too long for some of us to realize that.” 

“But you've at least realized it.” He sighs, standing, realizing this isn't a burden he can alleviate from her shoulders.

Yasha pulls him into a hug before he can fully retreat, a rare thing she reserves for private quarters. Her reputation is an aloof one, a stalwart one; as distant and untouchable as storms overhead. But he and Beau know there's something softer under the arcs of lightning and the burden of the sky she carries on her shoulder. She has a heavy mantle to bear, heavier than most of them-- and he can feel the tension in her shoulders where he clings onto her. 

The coin pouch tied to his belt jangles as he finally wriggles out of her grip, and Yasha’s attention snaps to it. 

She purses her lips, brow furrowing at the sight of it, her eyes flicking to the tome tucked into his belt as well. “Gustav gave you her job?” 

“Yeah, he did.” Molly shrugs, but there's a small vein of pride there that he would never admit to.  “Guess Macha was the foot soldier of the three.” 

“Then you should get to it.” She waves him off with quirked lips.

Molly mock salutes, a lazy thing that actually has Yasha’s smile pulling into one with a margin of teeth and the hint of a dimple on her right cheek. The small, humbling imperfections of even a goddess. He leaves, with the giddy steps of a purpose under his feet, and the weight of a manacle he didn't even notice finally shed. 

“Tell Beau I still love her!” He calls back once he's outside in the hall again. “Even if she was a right shit guardian!” 

He doesn't hear a reply from Yasha, but he knows she's rolling her eyes. Molly smirks, opening the tome Gustav handed him, scanning down to the first name on the high priority list. They don't need to be collected for a bit. He has time. The ring of the scimitar as he unsheathes it is a giddy tip-toe down his spine, lips quirking up as he reaches out for that familiar blip of gold, trees, and life-- and splits the air in front of him with a swift arc. 

He steps through.

\---------------

Molly is surprised when the forest lets him in and doesn't snap him back to the outskirts like he  had anticipated— he felt the way the wards had kicked at him when he followed on Nott’s heels into it the first time.

Speaking of-- Nott is there, right in front of him, hands on her hips as she waits. Molly takes a moment to seal up the tear, pinching his fingers at the edge and swiping down until the shadows are wiped away. He turns back to the stern faced goddess with a sheepish grin. 

“I vouched for you,  you know,” she starts, crossing her arms. “Yasha wanted to know what we thought of your… character, considering some of us are less--” She narrows her eyes. “Biased than others can be.” 

He wonders why Yasha chose now, after all this time, to make the decision, to ask the others. To ask Nott of all people, someone he's met for a blip of time compared to the rest.

“Oh…” 

“I _also_ figured you would come here looking for a place to crash now that you've been given a job… so I had the wards let you in.” She glances him over with a critical eye. “For now.” 

He's not sure how she found out about that, but she seems… sneaky. Like she has ears in places he could only ever dream of being privy to. 

Molly can see the faint glimmer of yellow flowers behind her, leading up in a familiar winding trail to the leaning, little shack. It looks much different at night. The whole forest does. It feels quiet, like it's holding its breath for the sun. But it also pulsates with life in the eerie, ethereal luminescence of its flora and the occasional skitter of some creature he will probably never know the name of. 

And she's only partly right about why he chose to come here and not return to the Underworld.

“Am I _really_ that predictable?” 

“Yes, thankfully,” she sighs, waving him forward and seeming to relax from her guarded stance,“now come on.”

He starts to follow her up the winding, terraced steps. 

“You can take my bed. I've still got a lot of work to do and sleep won't help me prepare for the equinox.” 

“Oh, don't worry I'm not tir--” 

Nott shoots him a glare. “Do you want to see Caleb or not?”

“Ah, yes.” Molly clears his throat, taken aback by the question and her bluntness. “Yeah, of course.” 

“Take the opportunity I'm giving you then, and don't fuck it up by only using this.” She gestures to everything below the waist and Molly purses his lips, face hot. “Caleb isn't interested in your…” She eyes him for a moment. “Gender non-specific wiles.” 

“And how do you know he isn't?” 

Nott sighs. “Because I basically raised him.” 

“Right.” Molly scratches the back of his neck, gesturing to the shack and presumably where Caleb is. “So… does he not…?” 

She rolls her eyes. “He can _like_ people and all that if that's what you're probing for.” He's not sure why she's so nonchalant about this, but as long as she isn't trying to burn him, he's okay with… whatever this is. “And don't think I haven't missed the way you've watched him since you met him. But he won't just immediately swoon into your arms ‘cause you're pretty.” 

He smirks. “You think I'm pretty?” 

She wrinkles her nose, ears pressing back, and shakes her head. “You're certainly dumb enough for him to like you that's for sure.” 

“Hey!” 

“Look, I don't have to spell it out for you, and I won't stop you from trying to do whatever it is you're trying to do, because the gods know he needs friends outside of this forest. And you're not the worst person it could be... But if you hurt him, if you do anything to ever have him coming back to me and acting like he used to be.” She glares up at him, eyes flashing with the harsh bite of summer and flame.  “I will turn you into _dust_ , Mollymauk.” 

She could certainly try. 

And if he did hurt Caleb in some irreversible way, then he would certainly let her. 

“Noted.” 

“Good. Now, get some rest.” She gives him a pointed look, narrowing her eyes before turning on her heel. 

“Will do,” he mock salutes at her retreat, tail flicking. 

He turns to ascend the remaining steps, unsure what the hell he's even doing here for one thing, at the steps that wind up to Caleb's humble little abode. 

Nott’s allowing him to stay in her home under the pretense of rest, but sleep is odd for beings like them. Rest isn't unwelcome, even if it's unnecessary most times. Dreams are… they're nice. Comforting...usually. Sometimes it feels like home and warm embraces, like hugs, for lack of a better word, and the caress of flower petals against his skin. And only sometimes, does sleeping amongst a meadow turn into a pain in his chest so sharp and rending it can only be a nightmare. 

Molly pushes the door open, wincing at the loud creak of old, weathered hinges and aging wood. The shack is dark, shaded, a lone window on the far side allowing some moonlight to spill in from a crooked frame and smudged panes. There's a bed just under it, a figure curled up beneath the mismatched and patchworked comforter. Molly blinks stupidly at the mass of white fur and raven feathers curled up beside the bed frame itself. An all too familiar beast asleep on the quaint little carpet decorating that portion of the uneven wood flooring. Armagh seems to have found her way here own her own it seems and even weaseled her way into Nott’s favor faster than he did. 

Always being one upped by a hound is a unique sensation, to say the least. 

Molly leaves Caleb to his rest, unsure what he would even say at this hour and resolved to explore a moment, turning to inspect the humble abode. It's cute, quaint even, pretty much how he imagined a shack in the heart of a fey-touched woods would be. There's little knick knacks scattered on every available surface; a jar with dots of fire pinging around inside, small strings overhead, tied with smooth, clinking shards of something like sea glass, bent and tarnished utensils, assorted buttons, bells tied on ribbons, a one eyed doll, various bones, furs, and a number of dried flowers and new ones sparsely decorating nearly every available surface. The walls themselves are twisted with roots and influence from the trees that shore it up to either side and Molly runs his fingers along the wall, resisting the urge to pick over the shelves and turn the place over. 

There's so many little things, he could spend a decade pouring over the life in this shack and he wouldn't discover every aspect of it. It's different from the place he calls home down below. That may be grand and ostentatious, it may be a testament to architecture and ingenuity, but it is a lifeless hunk of marble and obsidian compared to this. 

A bookshelf, as cobbled together and lovingly repaired as the rest of the shack, draws his attention. It's still paltry in comparison to his own library, where the yawning halls of knowledge stand filled with the untainted, timeless tomes he's never even touched. But these are well loved. They're creased and wrinkled, the leather covers frayed at the edges like a fingernail dragged over it while someone was reading. The corner of another is creased and bent, the pages of another has petals peeking out from them when Molly tips it back from its home on the shelf. He glances back to Caleb who's still hidden beneath a mountain of blankets. Imagines pale, freckled fingers holding the tome he plucks from the shelf— something the god's probably read a thousand times-- tracing the page like he hasn't memorized every word. Pressing flowers and leaves, and life in between the parchment to preserve them as much as the words printed into the surface. Fleeting creation; that cherishable quirk of mortality. 

He puts the book back before it even has a chance to contemplate crumbling under his touch. He isn't always dangerous, but he knows he has the potential to be. Never knows when plucking a flower will result in a fistful of ashes or something to keep. 

Molly wanders over to the west side of the shack, settles down on the nearly too small bed, that's glaringly empty, and pulls his own book free again. It's much less entertaining than what lies on that bookshelf. Just a reminder, really, and he reads it over, listening to to the rhythmic breathing of Armagh and the shift of Caleb atop his own bed. 

He doesn't notice the other god tossing and turning a bit too much until there's a pitiful sound that cuts through the air. Like a dog whine, but far worse. It makes the back of Molly's neck prickle, shoulders tensing and eyes snapping over to Caleb, who's tossed off his blankets and turned to curling into a ball around his arm; notably, the wrapped one. Molly freezes, realizing for a moment that if Caleb wakes up, the other has no idea he's here. Another part of him realizes something might be wrong with the way the god’s eyes are still very much closed, and the way he's clutching at his shoulder like he wants to tear into it. 

There's a small flare of light, like a distant fire, from behind Caleb and Molly stands to see the little hellcat, the fire-touched fey creature he met his first time here, butting its head against Caleb's spine. Even Armagh perks up after  a particularly distressed sound from Caleb, and the hound hones in on him in an instant, clipping to her feet. Molly waves her down, making his way closer to the bed, unsure what he's even doing here or if he should even wake Caleb up from the throes of some terror in his own head. But the pained little gasps are like hooks digging in between his ribs and dragging up into his chest, where they lodge under his sternum. 

Molly starts speaking nonsensical Infernal, unsure what to say, picking through what he remembers from Gustav, from any of the others, when they spoke to him early on, when they comforted him through his own share of bad dreams. He crouches beside the bed, hands resting on the edge of the mattress, but afraid to reach out and touch. Frumpkin glares at him from over Caleb's trembling form, while Armagh rests her head on his thigh and huffs out a distressed little breath of air. 

It's a long while of Molly running through nonsensical words into songs, lullabies, poetry, and whatever story snippets he can recall in the lilting language, until Caleb's breathing evens out again. His form unfurling from it's fetal posture, and his hand falls slack from its death grip on his own arm. 

Molly sighs, resists the temptation to reach out and brush a strand of auburn hair where it's stuck to Caleb's forehead. He feels like a lecher, for sitting here and staring. But the way silver and deep indigos, the muted blues of night light from the window that have decided to caress the other god, draw his eye. It's the slackened, softened edge to Caleb's features that makes Molly linger for a moment too long. 

Armagh whuffs at him, nudging his leg with her nose and pointedly looking to the bookshelf. Molly follows her line of sight, brow furrowed until he understands the suggestion. It's not like he'll be sleeping much, he might as well do something useful.  

He scans the shelves again, this time with a purpose, fingers brushing over the textured spines, tail flicking low and concentrated. He has to find one that's perfect, something that will last the whole night if it has to. He stops on a red stained spine, pulls it free and runs his fingers over the gold leafed words pressed into the cover. Flips it open until he finds: 

_’For mighty wars I thought to tune my lute,_  
And make my measures to my subject suit.  
Six feet for ev'ry verse the muse design'd,  
But Cupid laughing, when he saw my mind,  
From ev'ry second verse a foot purloin'd.’ 

He closes the book, shaking his head, knowing full well he would give himself a headache having to read through that all night, and moves to grab another. The undecorated and plain black leather of a tome, nestled on the bottom shelf, tucked close to the shelf’s side, and neatly hidden at any other angle, draws his wandering hand to it. When he pulls it free, the rustle of paper isn't what he expects. He plucks up the fallen piece of folded parchment, the thing tainted and delicate with age. Not too old, but not a young thing either. Flipping it open, he can't help but notice it's a letter, a quick scan reveals relatively neat penmanship and a curious slope to the letters, like they're rushing to get off the page. Molly trails the parchment back up to the header and--

_‘Dearest Astrid,_

_I know I should not keep writing these, but it has been many moons since--’_

He folds it shut as quickly as he realizes he shouldn't be reading this. While he's slipping it back into the pages of the journal, he can't help but notice the letter has small water stains on it, that the ink has run and dried, distorted and bloated where it fell. He can't help but notice, either, the stains of gold on the cover either, the way the tome is blank and lifeless on the outside, a scuffed stained black hide with scratches like nails dragged across the surface. There's the barest stain of rust on the edges of the parchment and the more he looks at it... the less it looks like the orangey tint of rust. 

Molly all but shoves it back on the shelf, standing up too quickly, and knocking a horn on the lower shelf with an audible clack that his him wincing and glancing over his shoulder. Caleb doesn't rouse and he sighs. Shivering and trying for all the world to pretend like he didn't find that. That it didn't feel all kinds of wrong when he held it. 

A sea-blue, cerulean painted cover, with small gold decorations inlaid into the spine distracts him from the thoughts of a letter he's still morbidly tempted to read the rest of. He shimmies it off the shelf where it's tucked neatly into the second to the highest one. Opens the cover and pauses at the more official header and the handwritten note penned into the filler page. 

_‘Property of The Invulnerable Vagrant’s Infinitely Awe-Inspiring Athenaeum.’_ And under that. _‘If it's been written, we have it.’_

He scans down to the penmanship; loopy and exaggerated, nearly illegible in places. ‘To our most valued Customer: we hope this novel finds you well.’ 

He doesn't flip past that, deciding it will have to do. If it was good enough to gift from… whoever owns that long-winded shop name, than it's good enough for him. Molly returns to Caleb's bedside and settles down, cross legged on the floor beside it. Leans back against the bed frame, Armagh shifting to curl up beside his thigh.

He opens to the first page and begins to read.

_“My father was a king and the son of kings. He was a short man, as most of us were, and built like a bull, all shoulders…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))
> 
> book quotes credit- 
> 
> 'Amores' by Ovid
> 
> 'The Song of Achilles' by Madelline Miller


End file.
